Life cycles

Into the night

2012-02-11T18:53:00.004+08:00

Kranji, 49 km. Two reflectors, two blinkers (one front, one rear), two wheels and one pounding heart. On a whim, I turn into what was formerly Malaysian land that cut the island into half from north to south. It is dark.

There's not a single lamp post nor moon in sight. There are stars in the sky, but with the pin pricks of light they shed, they might as well be white pepper on black tablecloth.

My front blinker, the size of my big toe, makes a pool of light big enough for me to bounce along the former raliway track. The rails, sleepers and gravel are gone. In their place is grass. Trust the government to have arranged to cut the grass.

I bounce along, keeping my eyes peeled as best i can for construction debris - especially metal bars or other things that can poke air out of my tyres and life out of me. Along the way, I pass several streams - all without concrete banks. Natural. I like.

I'll be back.

Bits of conversation

2012-02-04T22:24:00.012+08:00

Bukit Timah, 71 km. Three roadies overtake me. I decide to keep up. One of them says: "You're pedaling too hard, get skinny tyres."

While waiting in a park for the ride to start, I see a lady walk two dogs towards parked bikes. "Don't piss on my bike!" I yell. The dog pisses on another bicycle while the lady smiles sheepishly.

During the ride at Tampines trail, a girl crashes. She sits down, puts band-aid on one of several cuts, then asks: "Does anyone have chocolate? I think I'm going into shock." Later on, I see her cycling on the trail. The trail, the mud, the tree roots - everyone has to face them. A few hate it. Others choose to go a second round. Same physical setting, different attitude, different internal conversation, different results.

During lunch at Bukit Timah, some cyclists talk about cycling at 6.20 am (which means they get up earlier to breakfast, dress and ride to the start point). They say: "You think that's early? Some people cycle at 4 or 5." I say: "I cycle at 4 or 5 too, but that's pm not am."

Back home, I struggle to remove one of my shoes. I rip off the velcro straps, but the ankle deep mud has dried up and messed up my micro-adjust buckle. I pour water on it from various angles as if it is severely dehydrated before it releases. Hilarious ...

Monkey business

2012-01-29T21:35:00.037+08:00

Jan distance: 135 km (excludes Taiwan trip)

Mandai, 45 km. Along the road comes a guy on roller blades, which is quite unusual. More unusual is, he's blading in the middle of the road - with ski poles to propel himself uphill. What happens if a car comes around the bend and bends him?

Along the road are monkeys. Some nitpick, others gambol all over the place. When cars stop, they perform for the car occupants. Or perhaps they are conducting experiments.

Firstly to elicit reactions from said occupants - what kind of occupants will throw food? Which kinds will sit and stare? Which kinds will photograph? Which ones will do all the above? Which ones will endanger other road users, like stopping suddenly at blind corners? Does car size, colour, make and number of occupants affect the results? Are there other variables?

Secondly, to elicit reactions from joggers. What kinds will hang back, which kinds will continue running? Does gender, size, type of running shoe make a difference? Are there other variables such as state of mind; how can these be measured?

Thirdly, to elicit reactions from cyclists. What would they do when they come across monkeys, cars and joggers? Does gender, type of bicycle and speed affect the results?

Bonus question: there is a packet of chewing tobacco on the road. Chewing tobacco is rarely seen in the streets, much less in the vicinity of a nature reserve. Is it litter, or is there an experiment to see if monkeys will be addicted to tobacco and/or get cancer?

Spooked by the light

2012-01-22T22:23:00.000+08:00

Mandai, 44 km. It rains so hard today, there are flash floods. The rain seems to fall horizontally, splashing into my home too. Hours after the rain stops and the road is rather dry, I head out. As I pass drains, I still hear water roaring.

I overtake a roadie. As I cycle along a winding road through the nature reserve at night, he closes the gap. It's just the two of us on this road. At least, I think it's him. All I can see as I glance back is a bright light that comes close and closer. Spooky. At a junction that connects to the main road, I filter out. When I look back, the light is gone. Hmm ...

It is almost midnight. I pass an army camp where someone is on sentry duty during the Chinese New Year period. Poor guy.

To claim or not to claim

2012-01-15T21:05:00.004+08:00

Mandai, 46 km. My first local ride this year. A roadie, a stranger, is my companion for a while. Sometimes I'm ahead of him, sometimes he's ahead of me. Being polite, he points out dangers on the road to me: a sewer grate here, an uneven patch of road there. I ride roughshod over them on my fat tyres. When a taxi cuts me off at a junction, he lets go an expletive.

I cycle today partly to see if my bicycle is ok after flying four hours back home from Taiwan. Have the baggage baboons done anything to it? Not this time; no new holes in the bicycle box, but who knows? The ride confirms the bicycle is ok. But my camera, with a growing black patch on its LCD, is not ok. To claim insurance, I need to get a repair quote, which costs money but is not claimable. With the quote, and an explanation of how my camera got damaged, the insurer will assess whether my claim succeeds, and if so, to what extent. If it pays, it may reduce my claim taking into account wear and tear. My camera is only 1.5 years old. Poor thing!

Blown away

2012-01-08T19:18:00.066+08:00

Dec distance: 1,070 km (includes Taiwan trip)

25 Dec - 8 Jan
Taiwan, 826 km

Prologue
This is my 10th 'epic' expedition, all 826km of it. Ok that doesn't sound like a lot, still, it's:
a. the highest I've ever cycled up; 2,600m, in Yushan Park
b. the coldest I've been; 5 degrees Celsius (feels like less, because of wind and rain. I wear five layers of (thin) clothing and a shower cap)
c. my first tour: on knobby tyres; on a mountain road at night; and sometimes in slippers
d. the most equipment damaged or lost (two lights, 1 camera, 1 t-shirt, 1 jersey)
But I didn't lose any blood and I met just about the warmest people in the world - kind words, gifts and other acts of kindness wherever we went :)

Taxi adventure
Day 1: Sun 25 Dec, Singapore to Kaohsiung, non-cycling day. We arrive with our bicycle boxes and baggage past midnight. It's a struggle to fit our bicycle boxes into the taxis. We pay NT$200 per person to get to the hotel, which is just minutes away from the airport. The meter fare is just over NT$100 ... take it or leave it ... This is extreme - the extreme opposite of other locals that we meet in the next two weeks.
Night stop: Golf Hotel

Bad start, good finish

Day 2: Mon 26 Dec, Kaohsiung to Meinong, 59 km. Today is a good day for things to go wrong: two headsets loose (one discovered while going downhill), one puncture and two wheels put the wrong way round. We stop at a shop that offers free drinks to cyclists. The owner happens to know someone - an art teacher - who runs a bed and breakfast. The teacher knows someone who cooks a Hakka dinner.
Nightstop: Range BnB

The message
Day 3: 27 Dec Meinong to Dongshan, 102 km. The art teacher takes us on a morning ride, visiting farms (tobacco anyone?) and an elementary school. After breakfast, we're given souvenir keychains then we set off. Later in the day, half of us overshoot a turn. A truck driver overtakes me. "Turn back, turn back," he yells. I wonder why; was it because I'd passed a cycling track and he thought I wanted to go there? Turn back I did, and I find a couple of cyclists from our group who say they were told to go back too. A phone call confirms the message to head back. But one of us doen't get the message and his phone is turned off.

I set off solo to look for him. A lady on a scooter rides near me with the "turn back" message. I explain the missing person doesn't speaks local languages. I scribble a note for the lady and stop to wait. If he doesn't show up within half an hour, I'll continue cycling. He shows up, I explain the situation to him and I head back to the main group at my own pace. After another long wait for him, I go search again. It's uphill, dark and going to Baihe, our original destination, is out of the question.

The nearest place has only two rooms left. The restaurant is about to close too, but the workers are kind enough to work overtime for more than an hour. After dinner, we're given postcards as sourvenirs, because we cycled up the mountain.
Nightstop: Sunwu Resort

Serendipity
Day 4: 28 Dec Dongshan to Fanlu Village, 60 km. My head is warm because of my headwear but I shiver elsewhere. It's our good fortune to come across a Giant bikeshop where a customer tells us to avoid our original route; she says there's high traffic and advises us to take a scenic route.

At a rest stop, a man tells us to buy dried longans as it goes well with water - chew, drink and get longan juice. He turns out to be a tourist from Taiwan. He says the world is divided between the haves and have-nots, so ordinary folk have to look out for each other. Guidebooks such as Rough Guide write about the friendliness of Taiwanese. It's true. At a restaurant, someone helps us order food and makes helpful suggestions (we have different dietary requirements and preferences, some locals look at us and say "United Nations"); turns out she's another customer.

We're short of 30 km today and we stop at a place not marked on our map. The receptionist, who's just inside the gate, doubles as security guard. It's close to my idea of a cyclist's dream hotel - double story, room for four persons and a living room.

A solo cyclist eats alone and has perhaps 1-2 dishes. In a group, there's company and food variety. Speed would be at that of the slowest cyclist. Our routine for tomorrow is the usual 6-7-8: rise at 6, breakfast at 7, cycle at 8 am.
Nightstop: Childhood Resort

Smoke and mirrors

Day 5: 29 Dec, Fanlu Village to Shizhuo, Alishan Township, 40 km. The road going up Alishan is steep (up to 7% gradient) and sometimes narrow. Mirrors by the roadside tell you if something is coming round the corner. Sometimes, I have a sense of doom. Going downhill with 90 degree bends means heating up rims and brake pads. It is hot, my headgear is soaked in sweat and feel as if I'm smoking when my sunglasses fog up. At 1,500m, my ears pop.

An insect buzzes around me. I decide to burn some calories to wave it away, to show I'm not a carcass ripe for its eggs.

The hotel has many rooms, mostly with indoor bathrooms. Our (cheap?) room is at the top, with toilet and bathroom outside. Hence the saying, "out in the cold". It is 16 degrees Celsius. The water pump heaves mightily in spurts and the water heater sputters hot and cold water alternatively.
Nightstop: Chuyuan Mountain Resort

Stone cold crazy (part 1)

The famous "sea of clouds"

Day 6: 30 Dec, Alishan Township to Forest Railway Alishan Station, 30 km. At first, I'm clad in double layer headgear, raincoat and the usual tropical gear but as I cycle, I get hot and stick to tropical gear. I hardly drink though, the volume of water in water bottle is inversely proportional to volume in bladder.

To break the monotony of the climb, I learn to buckle my helmet and backpack straps with one hand while on the move. I also eat on the move, careful not to spill food on myself or spill myself on the road. Unlike gels, cereal bars are harder to unwrap with one hand on the handlebar while going uphill.

Water vapour forms as I exhale, as if I'm smoking. It is 9 degrees Celsius. As I climb towards 2,200m, I'm too tired to play Foreigner's "Star Rider" in my head. I focus on pedaling circles then on breathing. I think about what kind of breathing is more effective: forceful exhale, forceful inhale, or both?

At the Alishan National Forest Recreation Area, I wait. And wait. Sitting there instead of generating heat, I am still, silent and frozen despite wearing four layers of (tropical) clothes now. I sit on a rock. Now I know what stone cold means. An hour passes before I see cyclist #2. To while the time away, I take photos, write notes for this blog, do some simple repairs (with some tape from some people putting up election posters). By the time the last cyclist appears, I've waited 1 hour 45 minutes in total.

I go into a sorry excuse of a shop for a sorry excuse of a hot soup; piss would've been warmer than what was served. How cold is 9 degrees? Well, enough to turn liquid shampoo into semi-frozen gel.

The highpoint of today is having wild boar meat and an mattress with electric warmer. The low point is when my seat post rack is twisted by heavy steel steeds leaning against it. I struggle to fix it in the evening instead of the next day, to avoid the morning rush.

I fall into a troubled sleep, with several weird dreams about people. Some people don't recall, or perhaps take for granted what's been done for them, given up for them.
Nightstop: Hotel Xin Shunli

Stone cold crazy (part 2)
Day 7: 31 Dec, Forest Railway Alishan Station to Shuili. 98 km. We do the 6-7-8 routine but when 8 am rolls by, we're not rolling. It's raining. Not a piddling drizzle, but cold, miserable, you'll-get-wet-and-catch-cold rain. We wait till 9 in vain for it to stop. What's worse than sitting on stone cold rock in 9 degrees Celsius cold for almost two hours yesterday? It's cycling for hours in wind and incessant rain at 5 degrees today.

To prevent another chilly fiasco like yesterday, I stop more often so I don't have to wait so long for the last rider. I stop several times under bits of shelter like under eaves to take photos and put on more clothes. Though I'm going uphill, I don't sweat like before. So, "no sweat" isn't necessarily a good thing. A man looks at me wearing shorts and asks me in wonder, "Do you have warm clothing?" The lady beside him asks, "Do you have a raincoat?" I reply, "I'm wearing it." She looks at my translucent, rain-soaked raincoat and says, "It's really thin." He chips in, "Weather man says it's going to be almost zero."

Well, no point sticking around. "I'm off," I wave to the strangers. My fingers in my half-finger gloves are numb with cold, but I still have to operate my shifters and brake levers. This is what it feels like, to plunge bare hand into a bucket of ice water - and keep it there. My front derailleur acts up. Is it because it's so cold, the cable has contracted? I fiddle with the barrel adjuster but fail to budge it.

In the mist and rain, visibility is barely 100m. That's ok, there are blind corners anyway. My glasses fog up, so I peer over them like a granny as I grind uphill in my granny gear.

Lunch is at a restaurant - the busiest restaurant I've seen that sells no food. It's standing room only. Tourists from other parts of Taiwan are ready with the pots, pans and stoves. One of us goes out to buy cup noodles, cooked in freely-available, 98-degree hot water. My hand shakes so violently, I spill water on it - and it feels good. I cup my hands around the cup before drinking it.

After lunch, I streak 2,600m downhill. I have cold feet, I can feel rain water sloshing about in my shoes. And the wind is up to 59 km/h, which is my speed as I go downhill. Cold pierces like needles of ice.

Visibility remains poor. Safety means keeping the orange line on the left and the white line on the right. Hence the saying: "Don't cross the line!" It gets darker, in tunnels. Steer towards the light!

The road gets rough. some arising from reconstruction work dating back to Typhoon Morakot's aftermath. My wheel gets caught in a concrete rut. My knobbies scrabble for traction, bite and I don't bite the dust.

In dry weather and steep gradient, I push myself backwards when I brake so i don't go head over heels over the handlebar. Now, I do the same with wet rims and brake pads. As I go way over 30 km/h, my rear brakes feel spongy. A sponge would be useful right now, to dry them. Peer through the fog, avoid stones on the road, squeeze the brakes, go round the bends, repeat.

We cycle over a bridge through the clouds. Cars emerge wraith-like from the fog barely 50m away. I look past the sides of the bridge and see cold grey sky. Just as well I didn't bother to wear sunglasses today; there's no sun to be seen or felt. The song in my head is Journey's "Wheel in the Sky". The further down we go, the higher the mercury climbs. Warmth!
Nightstop: Moon Garden Hotel

Bad to good
Day 8: 1 Jan, Shuili to Douliu City, 79 km. On new year's eve, I remove batteries after my lights short-circuited in the rain. This morning, the borrowed red light works fine (whew). But the super-bright white light (a gift) has sprung a spring. My room mates help me look for the missing spring, but it gone for good. I rig a repair with a paper clip, which survives an "impact test" but when I put the light back together, it is short-lived.

At breakfast, plans change after discussion. First a quick excursion to Sun Moon Lake for those who want to; ride as far as you can in the time available, return to hotel then catch a train. I rush and leave phone in the hotel.

The first day of the year. Is this a harbinger of things to come? My light and repairs fail, I leave stuff behind, am almost hit by a car (my bad), fall down some stairs and land on my back, am separated from my friends and get lost - the first morning of 2012.

But good things happen too. I got to see the lake. After waiting 30 minutes for my friends, I make it back to the hotel safely, barely 10 minutes after the rest returned. My back doesn't really hurt, and I course-correct in time at a busy road junction. To paraphrase Regina Brett, a bad moment doesn't necessarily mean a bad day, and a bad day doesn't necessarily mean a bad life.

We cycle to Douliu City to spend a night there to catch a train the next day. Along the way, I play with my feet. In the absence of scientific measurement, with an eye on the speedometer, gradient and "feel", it seems pedaling circles is more efficient than a "two-stroke" up and down pedaling. Merely pulling back with my heel yields a power stroke that lazily leads to 35 km/h - with knobbies and on a fully-loaded bicycle.

At the hotel, the washing machine and dryer are heavily used by us eight cyclists. We manage to get train tickets. Good! I find out I've lost a t-shirt, must've left it behind at the hotel this morning (bad). But I brought that t-shirt along because it was ugly, just in case I lose it (no real loss, good).
Nightstop: Zhenkang Hotel

Back on track
Day 9: 2 Jan, Douliu City to Pingdong to Fangliao, 45 km. As we're behind schedule, and for change of scenery, we take a train to Pingdong to bypass roads with heavy vehicles and heavy traffic. The train leaving from Pingdong is cyclist friendly. At the end of our 3-hour train ride, we cycle to Fangliao. We are back on schedule after losing time from previous days.

As it is a relatively short ride, I cycle in my slippers. We stop at a hotel which has a bicycle on the roof and a mural of cyclists on the wall. The receptionist greets us with bicycle stands in his hand. A platter of fruits is served with free flow of coffee. There's a clothes line and ample hangers, a washing machine, washing powder and a dryer. Apart from the communal toilets (and kitchen) this is close to my idea of a cyclist dream hotel.
Nightstop: Tieji Rest Stop

Ride like the wind

Day 10: 3 Jan, Fangliao to Kenting, 97 km. Unlike yesterday, today is not cloudy but sunny. I struggle to put on my contact lenses and poke my left eye four times before the lens sticks.

We meander through country lanes, exploring. At Maobitou, I see a nuclear power plant and a wind farm - all for the first time. A signboard comfortingly announces we are within the 5 km radius and tells us where to flee if things go up in radioactive smoke.

It is now hot, as if we're in a different country: 24 degrees Celsius. As I pedal up rolling hills, I feel power loss. Then it hits me in the head: I'm up against headwinds.

We meet a hotel tout as we enter Kenting. Our scouts like the place, so we're in. Some of us choose to cycle to the southernmost point of Taiwan, but bicycles aren't welcome there. So close and yet so far. It is gets dark. I ride like the wind to get back to the hotel to shower, to avoid the congestion when the people-toilet ratio is 4:1. I nearly didn't make it back in one piece; a driver presents me with a "door gift" as I speed downhill. I see door. I yell. I brake. Rear wheel skids. He's startled and pulls the door shut. Whew. HItting the edge of the door at that speed would've closed the door on my adventure.
For dinner, we "walk the streets", savouring the "little eats" of Taiwan.
Nightstop: Kenting Hotel

Blown off course

Day 11: 4 Jan Kenting to Shih Hai, 58 km. Breakfast is not smooth unlike previous days; we check out one place after another to find one that suits different dietary / religious requirements.
There is a strong cross wind that pushes me as much as 1 m sideways. Buffeted by the wind, I lean into it one moment to stay on course, then course correct the next moment. As I go round bends on the winding road, It's hard to tell if it's a headwind, cross-wind or tailwind. I just know it is a strong wind: going downhills clocks me a paltry 15 km/h.

Our "lunch" at noon is a roadside provision shop that sells cup noodles. The next stop for a decent meal is an hour away - by car.

The weather changes in minutes. When the wind stops blowing and the sun shines, it is hot. When winds blow and clouds blanket the sky, it is cold. The wind gets stronger. On a flat road, I go at barely 8 km/h. The wind conspires with the foaming, crashing sea to get me wet as I round a corner. I struggle with the handlebars but am unable to turn the corner. Emergency brake to avoid a watery downhill ride.

Those of us ahead stop at a police station to wait for the rest. A non-uniformed person who sounds authoritative tells us there is food if we go right, but "no entry" if we turn left ("road" is passable for pedestrians, but dangerous). I turn right to scout. In a village, I see only one place to eat, in a converted container. Bike leader is surprised: "How did you find this place?" The eight of us use up practically all the stools available. I'm glad to get out of the wind. Now I know why this place is called "Breezy Peninsula".

This one-street village is so remote, there's no 7-Eleven. There are 2-3 places to spend the night; we're in the cheapest - and the most basic of the entire ride. There are two showers, but only one can be used at any one time (water heater can't take the heat). The room doors have no keys. "At least there are doors," I proclaim cheerfully. "Where's the TV remote control?" asks a room mate. Another replies: "Use a stick."

As the "container cafe" is closed, we ask the hotel proprietor what's for dinner. "We have a range of cup noodles," he says (this joint is home + provision shop + homestay). We walk out and find a little cosy cafe stuffed floor to ceiling with bric-a-brac: coat of arms, sea shells, eagle head, barrels, donated Singapore Armed Forces combat ration, the Ten Commandments ... The proprietress runs out of ingredients as she gives us big servings.

Back at the hotel, there's a song some of us hum, with percussion. I add the words and we have a revue - a thumping, rhyming cycling song.
Nightstop: Meixin Homestay

Rhythm and blues

At an aborigine village

Day 12: 5 Jan, Shih Hai to Donggang, 95 km. It's cold, overcast and I want to huddle in foetal position under the covers. I bundle up to go for breakfast and then hit the road. Barely 30 minutes later, my windbreaker and neck wear are off, and jersey zip pulled down - the steep ascent generates heat. My back and backpack are damp with sweat.

At a junction, we wait for the rest to catch up (usually, someone waits at the junction for the last man, so no one makes a wrong turn). Three of the guys turn street signs into percussion instruments. There's a drum, cymbals and a gong.

We stop by a police station to sort out a problem - tyre deflation. Giant, the bicycle company, has set up "Bike Stage" in these stations, equipped with a good quality bicycle floor pump and tools. Merida sponsors similar items in some 7-Elevens. These convenience stores come with wifi and toilets, and some have power sockets for users to recharge items.

On a good tarred road, I hear my knobby tyres sing. At slow speed, they purr; at high speed, they whir with delight. On the narrow mountain road, a car comes round the bend the same time I do. I startle, wobble then recover.

At the aptly named Fenggang (Wind Harbour), wind pushes me towards the traffic side. I cycle, practically leaning into the wind. When the wind suddenly dies down, I end up over-correcting. Occasionally, the wind pushes me towards the kerb. In Dapeng, I see a kid with his IV drip on a stand out in the streets. My biggest problem so far is a damaged LCD camera screen.

Our hotel has no washing machine but has wash basins, washing powder and a spin dryer. We lock our bicycles in an open garage for passers-by to see. But nothing is touched before the shutters come down at 11 pm. Still, I'm glad I don't have a titanium bicycle - how would I sleep in peace?
Nightstop: Huan Ann Hotel

Full circle

Day 13: 6 Jan, Donggang to Kaohsiung, 63 km. After our fastest breakfast (below 30 minutes), we take a ferry to Liuqiu Island. As our bicycles are stacked side by side, a pannier bag violates my top tube. And the black spot on my LCD screen has doubled in size overnight.

Liuqiu Island is a small beautiful island, with sun, sea, sand and coral thrust above sea level in interesting shapes. This little island has more climbs than the little red dot I hail from; as we leave the harbour, the climb starts.

At the roadside on the bigger island of Taiwan, I see a lady with a kid back out her scooter as traffic rushes past from behind her. "Car coming, car coming, car coming," I exclaim, each warning more high pitched than the last. A black car approaches and swerves away. Not a honk. The lady smiles and thanks me, then scoots off. Not once did she look behind her. It's taken for granted, with good reason, that people give way and are gracious in Taiwan. When we ask where we can find certain food, a passer-by tells us "follow me" and she leads us. A cyclist and a family stops to talk to us. We hit one bike joint after another: Specialized, Merida and hit the mother lode at Giant.

We cycle at night to our hotel, along a motorbike lane where scooters stream past constantly. I don't know how our bike leader does it; he confidently and unerringly leads us to the hotel, where we congratulate each other. We've come full circle: gone up the mountain, down to the sea and back to flatland.
Nightstop: Golf Hotel

Boxing day

Day 14: Kaohsiung, non-cycling day. Last night, we told our time-keeper to turn off his 6 am alarm, but we wake up only slightly later. After breakfast, we wash and box our bicycles, then go shopping at Giant - two of them.

I buy a bottle cage for my 1-litre Sigg bottle (which I didn't bring along) but later find out it doesn't fit. I return to the shop, explain the situation and am cheerily offered a refund without even asking for it. We go to Hanshin department store which has a splendid Giant section, then to more bicycle shops. At the smallest, the owner is so happy to see us when he hears where we're from, he leaves us strangers alone his shop, then reappears with t-shirts (designed by his daughter) for each of us. And that's before we even buy anything from him.

All in all, we visit seven bicycle shops (eight, if you count Hanshin) , three of them side by side in a row which another shop recommends to us. We go to the three side by side by train. Not that we know the way. We ask for confirmation at a train station and the staff calls another station to find out. It's already 9 pm but shopping for bicycle stuff beats eating :p Among other things, I buy a folding bead tyre for NT$400 after a 20% discount which I didn't have to ask for. We return to the hotel by taxi. The driver asks how long we've been in Taiwan. I reply: "Two weeks. We arrived last year and leave this year."

Day 15: Kaohsiung to Singapore, non-cycling day. I'm relieved to take a break from the 6-7-8 routine. During breakfast, I read Taipei Times Sunday paper, then go for a walk, avoiding dog poo. There are many dogs in Taiwan, some chained (they lunge so hard, the chain jerks their entire body back) and some unchained (though they should be as some of them chase cyclists too).

I drop by a Kuomingtang political rally, then reflect. After a ride like this, where I climb mountains, ride through and above the clouds and then along a Pacific Ocean coast, how will I cycle at home with its "my car is bigger than your bicycle", "you don't pay road tax and I don't care if you pay income and goods and services tax" drivers, and a urban landscape strewn with traffic lights?

I don't pack my bicycle pump in the bike box. Would airport security find it suspicious when the pump goes through x-ray and think it is something that blows things up? No, they don't blow things out of proportion, though the x-ray picks up my water bottle and security staff tell me to empty it.

I go to the airport prayer room to thank God that despite the coldest I've been (5 degrees Celsius, with rain plus wind chill) I didn't fall sick. Two failed lights, a damaged camera and buffeted by the wind but not a scratch on me. I lose an old t-shirt and get two new ones in return.

As the aircraft taxis for take off, the ground crew line up at the side, wave goodbye and bow. When the aircraft is airborne, I take one more look at the beautiful country with its beautiful people.

People I meet
1. Former teacher who runs an art school (20 years) and a bed-and-breakfast (10 years). He agrees that in Taiwan, people mostly want to be their own boss. He spends part of the morning showing us around the country-side and even a quick tour of an elementary school, where the principal readily agrees to us cycling around his school compound.

2. Hawker staff owner who has a US Green Card and grew up in Los Angeles. He says he was with a factory there but returned to Taiwan because his drinking buddies and family are here.

3. Owner of cyclist hotel, Mr Lui, who says I look like a journalist. There, I meet Jerry, a solo cyclist going around Taiwan (over 1,000 km). I ask him why Taiwanese are such a warm people. He says Taiwanese are open to foreign influences, giving its history with Europeans, Japanese and later the Kuomintang. It isn't till he talks about how Taiwanese like to make money that I hear a plausible explanation. There are five determinants of ability to make money, including fate, fengshui, education and doing good deeds. Good deeds isn't confined to work for charities; it includes moving a rock from a road so no one will trip over it. Taiwanese are kind in word and deed. But when they do it, it isn't in a mercenary, "I make money" kind of way. At a shop, a waitress asks: "Are those your friends outside? Ask them in, it's ok." There's no obligation to order anything and it's ok even if they munch on snacks brought from elsewhere.

4. Volunteers from Taipei, who usually serve a three-week stint in Shih Hai to teach and play with aborigine kids. One of the volunteers has already spent two months. The other volunteer passed me the cafe menu and offered to take my order, as if she was the waitress.

5. Fellow diner in Shih Hai container cafe, who had travelled to the area, liked it so much and chose to work here. He says there are Taiwanese who walk around Taiwan - over 1,000 km of it. I ask how long that takes, he says it depends how fast they walk. They have to quit their jobs to do this. I ask if it's easy for them to rejoin the workforce after that lengthy absence, if job interviewers will ask about being bored easily and needing adventure. He replies: "The world is such a mess, who cares about these things, it's a once in a lifetime experience." Before we leave, he writes down the sights we should see in the area.

Epilogue
At first, I am in two minds whether to go for the trip. It's not about trading familiar creature comforts for the unknown. There are different kinds of unknowns (Donald Rumsfeld). Preparation, even over-preparation, can give a sense of comfort and confidence.

Known unknowns
Packing and equipment checking take time. Is my equipment able to do the job? I deflate my front tyre, squeeze it and see the tyre belt. I check the spare and find a tear. On Christmas eve, the eve of the trip, I have little choice. There are no semi slicks so I tour on knobbies, which works out well indeed. No punctures, though I do check tyres whenever they roll over broken glass.

I know I need lights; bike leader had talked about dark mountain tunnels. How dark is dark? With some tunnels, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. With the longer ones, the light is perhaps fist sized but I am shrouded in darkness in between. When tunnels bend, it can be pitch dark. Cycling on a mountain road at night, the world is limited to the pool of light cast by bicycle light. Does the road ahead go left, right, up or down? It's hard to tell, just pedal and you'll find out. So long as the pool shows "safe", that'll have to be good enough.

Murphy's Law. Things will go wrong, but what exactly will go wrong? I test my blinker at home and it works fine, but fails from the start upon arrival.

How good is the packing? Was anything left behind or dropped off? That happens to someone's headset - a wedge dropped off, good thing it remained in the box. There's some damage to my box, no thanks to the baggage baboons. I make make-shift repairs with tape from the hotel receptionist. A rag-and-bone lady almost makes off with another cyclist's bicycle box; good thing the former was polite enough to ask first as we unpack our babies.

Cycling - and rooming as a group means being in close proximity all day. Who snores? That's where ear plugs (and eye shade) come in handy. One night, all eight of us sleep in a room and those without ear protection "enjoy" the night "choir".

Unknown unknowns

I've been to Taiwan before (Taipei) and I speak the two most common languages in Taiwan. Yet, it's a culture shock for me. Civic-minded Taiwanese don't just clear their tables after they eat. They may wipe the tables clean and separate food waste before disposing in recycling bins.

Tropical Malaysia may seem more humid, but clothes become (as a room mate put it) "crispy" dry after a night in air-conditioning. But handwashed clothes don't dry overnight in Taiwan - and seem to get wetter in mountain air.

The diurnal temperature range is wide. In the morning, I stand in the sun to warm up and in the afternoon I stand in the shade to cool off. Going uphill I sweat and downhill I chill. I also never knew what it's like to be buffeted by wind and pierced by cold.

Taiwan grows tea by the mountain but there's no free flow of tea at diners, not even poor quality floor sweepings. Whereas, free tea is available in Cambodia and Laos.

PS: Elton John sings that sorry seems to be the hardest word. Perhaps goodbye is harder?

PPS: Thank you for reading the end of this post. In appreciation, here are some bicycle touring tips for you :)

Hello 2012

2011-12-22T21:02:00.001+08:00

Fellow cyclists and adventurers, wishing you an adventure-filled 2012 ahead :)

Road hazard

2011-12-21T20:40:00.000+08:00

Old Upper Thomson Road, 31 km. I use my new cleats with my road pedals and find them rather tight - though I manage to unclip as a van turns and cuts me off at the kerb. I haven't even left the carpark yet! I also test a long-sleeved cycling jersey - the first time I'm wearing one. It is warm now, but up in the mountains up north, I wonder if I'll be snug like a bug in a rug or chattering monkey-like in the cold.

The monkeys are out in force today. A car stops and the troop scampers towards it. What would've happened if I was between the car and the troop? Drivers and their passengers, comfortable in their cars, ignore the "do not feed the monkey signs". Why do people keep feeding the monkeys, blocking the road with their cars and littering the road with food? Perhaps they imagine they are on a DIY safari.

While monkeys are all over the road, they are less of a road hazard - they do keep an eye and ear out for what's coming, calculate speed, distance and direction and get out of the way. Unlike some pedestrians.

To fix the pedals, a little kitchen cleaner, some lube for the pivots and some grease where cleats interface with the pedal should do the trick. I hope. I'll know if hope become reality if I do another road test. But first, there are other things to check and service: rims, brake pads, rear derailleur cables, the all important transmission ... and all that packing!

Oral exercise

2011-12-17T20:11:00.011+08:00

Pasir Ris, 78 km. For them, it's a round island ride today. For me, it's a training ride where I do some interval training before I meet them, and during too. I stay behind at junctions to wait for the last cyclist, then sprint to the front till the next junction. The peloton, with its blinking white lights, look like a constellation of stars. After a few hours, I have enough. Time for me to streak off like a comet and reach home before midnight.

This is exercise for my cardiovascular system and legs. And my vocal cords.

At the start of the ride, lady crosses the road, lost in her own thoughts, looking straight ahead as if I was wind in her ear. I shout, then shriek as I near collision. Fortunately there was a bus bay for me to swerve into. As I pass her, she clutches her chest in horror while I clutch my handlebars. At the end of the ride, a driver slips out from a slip road. He sees me and stops just so the metal body of his car and my body can conduct heat exchange.

Jam session

2011-12-12T23:36:00.015+08:00

30 km, Old Upper Thomson Road. With the prospect of cycling 2,700m up a mountain soon, it's time to spin the wheels a little more. A 30 km training ride isn't going to do much, but some training is better than nothing, especially if there's some sprint training thrown in to jazz things up, get more of of a short distance and break the monotony.

The monkeys are out in force, grooming themselves, nit picking and ignoring me as I whizz by. Which is a good thing. If one or more of them jumps on me and clean their teeth on my skin, I'd get a bad case of road rash and perhaps some dents too :o

Round on the ground

2011-12-10T23:49:00.057+08:00

Paya Lebar, 49 km. Email announces we meet at 1100. As I'm not familiar with the place, I allow buffer time but find the place at 1030. I wait till the minute hand yawns clear past 1100 then call my friends.

After waiting outside a piano shop to kill time softly, I start doing some laps and loops. On the grass, through the grass, under the overhead train tracks I go. My knobby tyres slip and slide in the gooey mud; slowing down and keeping up the traction keeps me upright. Globs of cool mud fling up too, onto my handlebar and my cool orange sunglasses.

People in the area must've thought I've gone mad. Or maybe they thought they were going mad, as in "didn't I just see that guy a few minutes ago?" Round and round I go, as the minute hand goes full circle.

My new cleats, on their first outing, get their first taste of mud. It is amazing how efficient new cleats feel. All that energy and efficiency lost during Bike n Blade, all that time lost!

Get on with it

2011-12-05T22:46:00.008+08:00

Woodlands, 56 km. The phrase "weather pattern" exists for a reason. For the past few Sundays, the sun burns in the morning and afternoon. By mid afternoon, the sun pulls over a dark quilt of clouds and snores like thunder. Then rain pours down for hours, so a night ride would be way after dinner and close to bed time. So I don't cycle yesterday, because I didn't get on with it and chose to do (or not do) other things. Can you beat the weather? Well yes, but you'll get soaking wet. No fun. But no cycling is also no fun. And cycling on Monday, a working day, means more traffic dodging. Trade-offs.

Over the weekend, I saw someone who got on with it. A skateboarder with a full-face helmet. Perched on steep slope. With a cape. When he scoots off in full flight, he crouches down. When traffic nears, he stands up, stretches out his arms to unfurl his cape like a drag chute. Then he goes back up for more. He takes care to pack his chute around his ankles before he sets off. He also scans the road for cars. His neck depends on it.

As for me, my "achievements" are:
a) adjusting my saddle using a spirit level. I've been sliding down; what I'd thought was level wasn't, due to parallax error. Errors get us down. Is your spirit level?
b) changing the worn-out cleats on my shoes later in the day, and getting them just so by using a marker (redundant) and matching (precision) the old indentations with the new cleats before tightening them. For greater pedaling efficiency. So I can go at breakneck speed at breathe-taking distances. Soon :p

Two cups of tea

2011-11-27T22:34:00.004+08:00

Nov distance: 318 km

Changi, 58 km. To see how much (or little) I can take, I drink two cups of tea for breakfast and head east to meet some fellow cyclo-tourists and discuss our coming big ride. Things to find out include:
Weather: temperature is one thing, wind chill is another. Being out in the cold is no joke
Accommodation: is there room for our bicycles or will they be left to the elements and thieves? Is there running water? A place to handwash laundry? Toilet paper and towels? How many persons to a room? Or would it be snore-fest in a dorm?
Road: the roads may be tarred, but if there's monsoon and landslides, expect off-road conditions on the road. There may be slime and moss in dark tunnels. Which means, road trip with fat tyres?

Monday blues ... not!

2011-11-21T23:50:00.015+08:00

Punggol, 45 km

Sunday morning was sunny
Then it turned rainy
I thought I'd cycle at night
But that was not to be

Today I'm on leave
So I don't come to grief
I explore the sea shore
And meander as I please.

Creature comforts

2011-11-12T23:46:00.004+08:00

Old Upper Thomson Road, 30 km. Hour after hour, the rain buckets down. The sky stays cloudy and grey. The rain stops, only to start again. Only after night falls does the rainfall stop. If I didn't have a trip up the mountains in winter coming up, I'd stay indoors.

I hustle out the door to cycle after dinner, only to feel hungry a few km later. Round and round the circuit I go, along the road that winds among the trees, cutting a swathe through the moist, post-rain air.

Raindrops glisten on the leaves. I wonder about the monkeys - how do they sleep in the jungle? What do they do when it rains? How do the little furry creatures cope without houses and other creature comforts?

Perhaps they cope because they don't think they can't.

A study in contrasts

2011-11-07T00:04:00.007+08:00

File photo

Tuas, 130 km. Once in a long while, my alarm clock works on a weekend morning so I can play. I want to stay in bed but roll out before dawn and cycle north to head south. Though I usually cycle alone, there are 8x that number today.

There are new bicycles (a Wheeler), old bicycles (an Alpinestar), road bikes, mountain bikes and a foldie. The foldie rider, on her third journey with it, folds before the first rest stop. I cycle with her to the nearest train station so she can board the train with her bicycle. Meanwhile, the main body moves on and it takes some doing to find them.

This ride is touted as an 85km+ ride. Some cyclists turn up with backpacks and hydration bladders. One looks at my two water bottles and no bag.

Where we start from to join the ride is different. But it's the same 85 km journey. What we carry with us is so different. And what we make of the ride, what we have in our heads affects where we finish.

Timing

2011-11-06T12:30:00.008+08:00

Woodlands, 55 km. I've done this loop so many times, but never at night. The scent of Frangipani flowers fills the night air as I cycle in a car-sparse area. Even the main roads seem bare of cars. It's dinner time, I guess. As I pass the shipyard workmen quarters, the smell of curry wafts through the air. The sun has set, the roads and air have cooled. Same route, different time of day, different experience.

Doing the same thing at a different time can lead to a different result.

Something is better than nothing

2011-10-30T23:08:00.008+08:00

Oct distance: 254 km

Mandai, 41 km. I don't feel like cycling today. Instead, I pay off the sleep deficit that built up over the work week. Morning turns to noon turns to dusk. The tension between slacking and cycling reaches tipping point; I push my bicycle out. It's only when I'm on the road that I realise, in the fuss to light up like a Christmas tree, I've left my water bottle behind.

There's a water cooler in a park, so I head there. A mom is scolding her kid. "No dinner for you!" she barks. The kid whines, says she'll never do it (whatever that was) again and mom, her voice melting, says "I forgive you".

Traffic is heavy, it's dinner time. A few other cyclists are out too, their lights blinking like twinkling stars. A roadie is behind me. I pedal hard. I hear creaking. "He's behind me," so I pedal harder. When I look back, no one's there. It's just my saddle creaking and my imagination. Time for some attitude adjustment.

At the start of the ride, all I had in mind was perhaps 25 km instead of the usual 50. Unless I'm leaping across a gorge and fall short, something is better than nothing and a short ride is better than no ride. And once the wheels get rolling, it's easier to keep going. It starts by getting the bicycle out the door :p

Dead end

2011-10-26T23:04:00.043+08:00

Changi, 59 km. Far north, it's rained so hard in the Land of Smiles, no one is smiling. It rains here too, but there's no flood. When the rain stops, the cycling starts. As it's late in the day, I intend to cycle just 40 km and be home before sunset. On a whim, I turn where I've not turned before and keep going until I don't know where I am.

The only guide is my compass, a tiny thumbnail-sized thing that guides my Little Red Tank and me. Heading east takes me to a familiar road. A dog trots behind a pedestrian, spots me and locks on, barking. I yell at it. It's not alone. Another mutt keeps pace to my left, barking. I wouldn't be able to move my legs and bark like it does.

Again, I turn where I've not turned before and end up in a dead end - a gate that leads to the biggest airport here. A girl in a dress is there. Why? As I u-turn and pass her, I tell her she's headed for a dead end. "I know," she smiles. She's carrying a big camera. So, I'm dressed up, she wears a dress. I sit on my toy, she swings it in her hand. I get accosted by dogs, she might meet wolves in men's clothing. I explore more dead ends. She seems to be doing the same. But since she's now in a residential area, I reckon she's safe and I head home - getting somewhat lost in this unfamiliar place. Again, my little compass, velcroed onto my handlebar points me home.

A little magnetism goes a long way.

Keep things fresh

2011-10-23T22:50:00.019+08:00

File photo

Seletar, 42 km. Instead of cycling the usual northern loop (which I claim solely for myself since I've never seen any cyclist do the entire loop), I head to the northeast corner of this little island.

The little town I cycle in, with its own Picadilly Circus, has changed a lot. Some winding roads have become dead-ends, all boarded up. New, wide roads have been built. But still, it's a place for planes, as it has been since last century. Amidst change, there is continuity, amidst continuity, there is change.

Escape velocity

2011-10-16T23:53:00.002+08:00

Woodlands, 56 km. Last weekend, rather than fight traffic outside, I fought a bug inside me - it seems to take more energy to fight something inside than outside. It would be terrible if the enemy is me. I save energy and spend time on the couch.

Today, I cycle. Hard. Or perhaps it feels hard because of the hiatus. I dart into a road I've avoided for a long time (a year? more?). There used to be dogs there; perhaps they're gone now. Wishful thinking. They're so glad to see me, a couple of them even leave their food to meet me. I crank up my revolutions per minute as they cheer me on, barking. The lady feeding them shouts; she's either calling them back or asking me to go faster.

The closest cur is on my left. Ahead is a curve in the road. If a car appears on the right and cuts the corner, I'd be intercepted on either side. Worst case scenario is to be bitten on the left then careen to the right and carom off a car. No thanks to the fangs, I veer right. As if on cue, accursed cur stops. I pass into safety without passing out.

Couch is safe, but I'm glad I go out today.

What to do?

2011-10-02T23:06:00.007+08:00

Woodlands, 56 km. If "what to do" is said with a scratch of the head, it means "what shall we do?" As in, "shall I cycle today, or run?" In the end, I cycle. As an incentive, I pack a camera for fun and cycle to places where fun takes place: where the waters flow.

If "what to do" is said with a shrug, it means "what can we do?" - in other words, suck it up, there's nothing we can do about it.

If the current situation is the latter, go have fun, why let life pass by?

The sky is falling

2011-09-25T21:37:00.001+08:00

Sep distance: 449 km

Woodlands, 64 km. Last week, as I was taking part in a mass run, I heard a cracking sound and a tree fell barely 50m ahead of me. Ok, it wasn't a tree, it was a branch as big as a tree (it blocked the entire lane).

Today, I hear a crack above my head. It's not thunder, it's a branch. I'm not going to look up to see whether it's a piece of US space junk falling on me. I sprint to get out of the way. A branch falls one bicycle length ahead of me. Some dry twigs smack into me; it's like being caned. Did it make sense, to sprint away without knowing where the branch is? Is getting hit on the helmet or my neck (I stick it out like a tortoise when I lean forward to sprint) better than getting smashed in the face? All I know is, I'm unfortunate enough to be there when the branch falls, but fortunate enough just to get a whipping.

Two weeks ago was the 10th anniversary of September 11. There were people who were there for just one day (for a meeting) or for the last day (of work after resignation). There were people who missed death by seconds, because they were delayed by something or other. There were people who died in an instant. There were others who fell from the sky.

Clearly, life is unfair. Stuff happens. Things fall out of the sky. I read about the cancer survivor who dies when someone jumps off a building and lands on the one who beat cancer. I also read the sign on the door of someone in a documentary who has an artificial heart (he carries his life support system around in a backpack). The sign says: "There's always, always something to be thankful for."

Windswept, rainswept and wet

2011-09-11T21:39:00.000+08:00

Pulau Punggol, 39 km. Yesterday was a cloudy day. All day. I didn't cycle as I thought that would precipitate precipitation. But there was no rain. Today looks like yesterday, so out I go. The wind blows, and I huff and puff as I ride against the wind. Big drops of rain pelt down, taking their time to hit the ground. That's the warm up. Then sheets of rain fall. I spy a little hut, park my bicycle beside it and hurl open the door. A man inside jumps out of his seat as if I'm lightning. I mumble "sorry" and stand outside to chill out in the wind and rain. No point cursing. No point worrying. Think about what to do and if the time to do it hasn't come, just chill out.

Against the wind

2011-09-04T21:19:00.003+08:00

Sat 3 Sep - Sun 4 Sep
Singapore to Desaru (Johore, Malaysia) to Singapore, 346 km.

Journey before the journey
Day 1: Sat 3 Sep, Singapore - Desaru, 165 km
My 10th charity ride is Charity Bike n Blade #6. I still rue being unable to go for the actual ride. Well, today is not work so I break a cardinal rule: don't try anything new on a big ride. I break this rule six times.
1. Use a new route to the start point, past filter lanes to expressways and a series of wheel-eating drain covers.
2. No valve caps, to reduce rotational mass.
3. Fill up with a never-tasted-before energy powdered drink.
4. Use only one squeeze bottle; the other has a screw top and needs two hands to get at the contents inside.
5. Use thin instead of thick expedition gloves.
6. No sit-down lunch break. Instead, nibble every hour on dry rations and energy gel, just like Tour de Timor.

This year, there are two foldies, one MTB (mine), a hybrid and the rest are road / tri bikes. That's a whole lot of bicycle and bling; if each machine is conservatively valued at $1,000, there's $100,000 of bicycle on the road. Someone shows me his carbon bicycle; even the spokes, crank and caliper brakes are carbon. The only thing carbon on my bicycle is me, carbon-based life form.

In the past, I tend to surge ahead with the first wave then blow up. This time, I rein myself back and find myself at the end of the peloton. Great, just what I planned. Until a second wave passes me and I realise I was at the end - of the first wave! Still too fast eh?

My first rest break is almost three hours later. The infrequent and short stops take their toll. Both foldies overtake me when I stop and stand to eat some snacks. As I'm going too slowly to draft anyone now, I go solo and look at road kill to break the monotony of going uphill. Besides the usual cats, monkeys, snakes, monitor lizards and birds, I see, for the first time, a porcupine.

My bicycle purrs with pleasure. The chain whirrs effortlessly through the drive train. The slick tyres give silent service. The only thing that isn't working is me. Lack of training, sleep and proper food, plus a rumbly in my tummy from the strange powdered drink are my ball and chain. I want to give up and take the short, 100 km route, but somehow press on. The energy comes from tradition: never give up, keep going.

By the time I get to the hotel, it's as if I'm the last man in. People clap. Members of the search party I guess. I hear half the cyclists had taken the 100 km route. While I got bonus mileage from the ride to the start point this morning.

Hot and windy

Day 2: Sun 4 Sep, Desaru - Singapore, 181 km.

As if I'm still and asleep, waves pass over me. Actually, they pass beside me, these lighter-than-mine bicycles. When another peloton passes by, I feel like a stray dog and latch on. One cyclist goes over a pothole and his tyre is holed. Air hisses like an angry snake. Everything stops except the air.

I wonder about some of these triathletes; some cycle with neither saddle bag nor tyre pump. Who needs inner tube or pump?! Whip out mobile phone, speak and a car appears with tools and spares.

It is hotter today than yesterday. Those guys who have crew cuts or even shaved heads are now the coolest dudes in the pelotons. I wonder how long-haired girls do it. Well, it's a fact, women live longer than men; they are made of sterner stuff.

Salt pours through my pores and stains my arm warmers like mould. I am thankful for the ice cold, sponsored 100Plus isotonic drink. I meet the legendary founder of Joyriders. She cycles six days a week. Her sole rest day is my sole cycling day ...

The song "Against the wind" plays in my head. The speedy cyclists are way ahead, and many others have taken the short route. Heat didn't quite bother me in the last Bike n Blade but then, my solar-powered, air- and liquid-cooled body wasn't getting older by the day. I pull up beside a stationary support car. The crew helpfully suggest I pour cold water on myself besides drinking it. "See the steam rise?" I ask. I protest in shame as someone holds an umbrella over me.

Why should the safety vehicle be behind me and draft me? We turn the tables and put some zing into things. We pass a sole roadie. "Come on!" I yell. He pulls beside me then sanity takes over him and he drops back. The car and I move as if there's an invisible bungee cord between us and we move like this until I'm on the outskirts of town. We pack, wrap our bicycles in cling wrap for the bus ride back to Singapore. We debus, and I cycle home.

Will I be back here next year? Will I be on a mountain bike or, as M asks, will I "downgrade to a road bike"?

Dark clouds, bright outlook

2011-08-30T22:07:00.005+08:00

Aug distance: 359 km

Changi, 55 km. I'm off to meet a friend who is collecting his new toy (a two-wheeler named what else but Wheeler) and his friends.

I go west past the airport and fly through the air effortlessly at over 30 km/h on my fat tyres. Fly, in a nice sort of way, ie behind, not in front of my handlebars. Dark clouds hover in the sky but it doesn't rain for a while. When it rains, it is a reluctant drizzle; so light, the white of my jersey doesn't get stained with the dirt from the road.

Speeding without incessant clicking from the crank is such joy. Instead of the sound of irritation, there is the joyful hum of fat tyres and the cheerful banter of the wind as it flutters past my ears.

There are dark clouds on the horizon, but it doesn't mean it'll always storm. And some preparation can be made in advance for rain.

Don't fix it till it breaks

2011-08-28T23:58:00.002+08:00

Woodlands, 67 km. The clicks are too much. Not 'clicks' as in km but as in 'high pitched sounds that grate on the ears'. They (the clicks, not the ears) started in mid Jul, after I wiped the crank arms clean. Perhaps some water/dirt got in? Greasing, tightening, loosening the crank arm bolts and cursing haven't stopped the clicks. A wild goose chase to fix one thing (dirt), eventually led to wild tightening and breaking of steel.

Not the saddle nor seat post, not the chain rings nor chain. I'm now convinced it's the crank arm that clicks. I rue the day I cleaned it. Now, the squeaky clean drives me nuts. Instead of stripping the threads off the crank arm and ruining the entire crank, I put up with the noise. Sometimes, the clicks go away. Then they come back. "Just checking to see you're still around and irritated," they chirp. I ignore them. And, then, they go away!? I can't believe my ears.

Elsewhere, in the south, north, east and west, leadership change is through people power in the streets, or gun powder. Or those in power seem powerless, with revolving doors (6 prime ministers in 5 years?!), gridlock or bailed out governments. This weekend, here, change is relatively quiet, through the ballot box. The rancour is mostly online and some offline (booing).

I wouldn't say "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". Things can be better, but don't fix till it breaks; it's like cooking food till it burns ...

The right choice, the right line

2011-08-20T21:29:00.001+08:00

Pasir Ris, 52 km. Let's see, ride with roadies today at 5 am, or hit the trails at 9 am? The latter sounds more fun, so I go for it. I end up being a sweeper, offering to look for some lost people then getting lost as the main group moves ahead.

I cycle down memory lane (Tampines trail), where when I last crashed and tore a strip of skin off my leg. The place looks so different now, with a lot more grass and some double black diamonds. I choose to go offroad, I choose the right line but veer off as my front wheel on a rigid front fork catches onto some gremlin buried in the ground and I crash for auld lang syne. No damage to bicycle nor to skin, just crushed my my pride a little.

I eat humble pie and ask the organiser how to do a proper bunny hop. Guess I'll have to eat carrots too :p

By the numbers

2011-08-13T23:26:00.004+08:00

Changi, 127 km. 4 hours of sleep. 5 am rendezvous with 30 cyclists, all roadies but one (me, with the fattest tyres and biggest saddle bag). Pace picks up, heart races, drive trains whirr in the dark.

Half the cyclists break off in ones and twos as we head from east to west. The remaining half end up in hospital. Well, not as emergency cases but as visitors, as we're training for a charity ride. We see and hear first hand what we're raising funds for. At the dementia ward, our guide says: "If you think you've got problems, wait till you come here ...".

As for the squeaks that have been plaguing my bicycle, they're gone, all gone. Or perhaps I can't hear them over my tired panting.

Will over steel

2011-08-08T22:31:00.000+08:00

Serangoon, 11km. Now I've done it. Or rather, overdone it. Dot the i's, cross the t's, tighten every bolt to stop every squeak and rattle ... too much torque and the nut (that would be me) tears off the bolt ...

So I'm off for help; some bikeshops are closed, but not the one I already visited yesterday. And yes, the man does have a spare bolt; if it was any other shop, would I have ended up with a bolt plus entire crankset? He dismantles the crankset, cleans the chainrings, checks the other bolts, adds some grease, puts it all back. $5.

Amazing, yes. More amazing is, how an short allen key and some arm twisting can shear off a steel bolt. Morals of the story: mind over matter (or is it mind your force). And know your bikeshops :p

Road rage

2011-08-07T00:08:00.000+08:00

Sembawang, 47 km. It's late afternoon when my wheels hit the road, on account of rain since morning. Perhaps I should've stayed home to stay sane and a better chance to stay alive. Thrice, drivers hurtle their metal into my right of way. I'm on a major road, they're on a side road but might makes right, according to the unofficial highway code. Having taken evasive action through defensive cycling, I'm tested again by a pedestrian crossing a narrow road; she sees me coming and keeps walking, stopping only when collision is imminent. My odometer reads 12 km so far. And people tell me, it's dangerous to cycle overseas. Yeah, right.

I drop by to see bikeshop man, whose 12-year old dog has died. He was there when she breathed her last breath. He lubes my headset like I tell him to, though it isn't really necessary. And it isn't the headset that's creaking, it's the cranky crank. Again. I should've left well enough alone. So much for the relentless pursuit of excellence ...

Saving me the best for last, as I cycle home, a driver shoots out from a side road, goes against the flow of traffic (draining the blood flow from my face) and stops only when another metal monster behind me is too big to squeeze past like I did and blares a protest.

Hearing is believing

2011-07-31T22:44:00.015+08:00

Jul distance: 354 km

Lim Chu Kang, 75 km
As I cycle through the concrete jungle, The Cure's "A Forest" plays in my head (or is it a song in my heart?). Concrete still surrounds me but the music I imagine makes me feel better until I'm near the coast.

My creaky crank behaves itself but just for while. A tiny creak returns. I stop to turn the crank bolt and that's like turning up the volume. For an hour I put up with the irritating, infernal, incessant noise. Time to head for the bikeshop but that's hours away.

Surely I can't fix it so I've to put up with noise? Haven't I tried enough? Well, what do I have to lose but a few minutes to try again, then say with grim satisfaction, "I knew it, waste of time"? So I stop, I fiddle and presto, the noise disappears. Well, almost but for sure, it's the bolts. I'm glad I didn't take it for granted that the problem is beyond me. And if it wasn't for the incessant noise driving me insane, I wouldn't have tried again.

After I get home, my cyclocomputer dies, wiping out, yet again, the total distance accumulated over time. I replace the battery. The day before, my solar-powered watch gave up too. Time to reset the watch. Some things can be reset but don't be deaf, listen ...

Creepy creak

2011-07-24T23:08:00.006+08:00

Lim Chu Kang, 72 km. I've been plagued by creaks. Whether loud or soft, they grate and irritate. There are so many parts, some moving (like drivetrain components) and non-moving (like seatpost). First it was the headset (grease it or replace it if worn out), then the front wheel quick release (grit from mud?), then chain ring bolts (loose). And now, the crank arm bolts?

Each time something creaks, it's a wild goose (or is it wild creak) chase. The process of elimination begins, to isolate and fix the trouble spots. While on the move. While enjoying the sights.

I see a blue Conalgo and give chase. I sprint and crest a hill. I'm breathless and so it is the creak, it's gone silent.

Sometimes, a problem goes away, only to return later. Does it make sense to fix one thing at a time, or go for an overhaul? Scheduled maintenance, whether for bicycle or life, might make more sense, to prevent rather than to cure.

Sometimes this, sometimes that

2011-07-17T23:23:00.003+08:00

Lim Chu Kang, 69 km. How nice it would be, if I could (a) step out my door and cycle on dirt or gravel; a single track that winds through green trees and hills, past a babbling brook and fields of yellow flowers beneath the clear blue sky. Instead, I (b) cycle on grey asphalt past beige or white boxes of apartments, past silent, sullen crowds and streams of metallic monsters called cars. It's hard work to get away from civilisation to wide open spaces.

But then, if the situation was (b), most days of the week I would be hard-pressed to get to work or groceries. And I work most days of the week instead of play.

Sometimes this is better than that. Can one have a cake and eat it? Yes, one residence (b) for work and another (a) for play, which is the life of a very select few. But then, I've met so many people who are happy with the little in their lot in life (dirt roads, wooden huts and wide smiles).

The start, the end or not yet?

2011-07-10T23:32:00.008+08:00

Former Malaysian territory in Singapore, 76 km. After 79 years, the gate is shut, the train is gone and the station is quiet. It's the end. Or, it is the start to something else?

Some things are historical (Singapore was part of Malaya). Some things are illogical (after independence, board train in Singapore, clear Malaysian immigration in the south of Singapore then clear Singapore immigration in the north). Some things are inevitable. Some things, well, don't get hysterical.

Is what is to come better than what has come? The past has its ups and downs. The future, we plan and pray. When there's a setback in life, it's not the end. Not yet. One chapter ends, another begins. One book ends, pick up another. Keep reading :)

Bleached bones, glittering glass

2011-07-02T23:28:00.012+08:00

Former Malaysian territory in Singapore, 62 km. Yesterday is the first day a multi-million dollar project which I'd brought to life and nursed for two years is no longer my baby after I hand it over. And the day where Malaysian territory in Singapore, on which Keretapi Tanah Melayu trains run, is handed over to Singapore.

Today, I check it out the former foreign land. There are fist-sized rocks along many parts of the railway track, sometimes level with the sleepers, sometimes on the sleepers. The ground between the sleepers isn't always even either.

Besides rocks, I see bleached bones of small animals. Some are almost intact, perhaps a dog crouched by the rails to die. Sometimes, the bones are scattered, a skull here, a jaw bone there, bleached white in the sun. There's a snake, decomposed, with its skull showing and the rest of the body in slimy black. In some places, broken glass is strewn all over the track.

Bleached bones, glittering glass and hopeless hope. Despite the picturesque way, this is way harder than I thought. I almost derail several times. It's taken longer too. Time for water rationing. My rest stops become too frequent for my liking. Time to give up. I look for a way out and am on my way out when I stop. I'm near the end of myself, but maybe I'm near the end. If I tough it out a bit more ... and look for signs that the way will become easier.

Some metres ahead, the way does look easier. No more fist-sized rocks. And the journey ends soon enough.

The hand you're dealt with

2011-06-25T21:00:00.008+08:00

Jun distance: 150 km

Lorong Halus, 49 km. This morning, I play cards. Life is reduced to what's on paper and throws of the dice. The economy tanks, stock market falls, I lose my job and go heavily into debt to pay my medical bills. For a moment, I want to fold and walk away. Hope less or hope none? Regardless, I play on. If I walk away, I lose. If I play on, I can hope. For most of the game, I play to pay off my debts at 100% interest while the others amass cash, property and stocks. I pay off everything I owe. The thought of getting rich through leverage doesn't occur to me, then I give away what's left, making me the biggest debtor and donor at the table.

This afternoon, I cycle with a newbie. It's as if everything is under control. The sun shines, drivers behave and we don't get lost. Not a drop of blood is shed, not a scratch. And no dice.

Play the hand you're dealt with.

Ups and downs, good and bad

2011-06-19T23:47:00.002+08:00

Woodlands, 60 km. While cycling in Timor Leste, a fellow sufferer said to me, "I hate downhills, because I know there'll be an uphill". A glass that's half full is half empty is the same volume of water. Given that same volume, do you label it "half empty" or "half full"? Depends on what you want to feel; to feel bad, call it half empty. To feel good, call it half full. In other words, let what you want to feel determine what meaning to assign to a fact. The volume of water is fact, half full/empty is opinion.

Recently, I was stabbed and shoved (metaphorically). I pushed back. Dominos fell. I was aghast, as if someone had gashed my bicycle frame. I also felt betrayed by the one I'd saved years ago; if I hadn't saved the person, that person wouldn't have been around to savage me, cost money and set off a chain reaction.

"How do you feel?" some ask. "It depends," I reply, "on what happens next." Now, I feel some relief as the future unfolds slowly. More bad things happen, as the chips fall. I lie awake - knowing it shouldn't be my problem anymore. And I make peace - in my heart - with the one who stabbed me

Today, I chase a truck on my fat tyres. 46.3 km/h. Some people would call it dangerous. I call it fun.

Blog counter crossed the 25,000 mark today. Thank you readers :)

Mr Blue Sky

2011-06-12T22:23:00.001+08:00

Lorong Halus, 41 km. Grey is lifeless, dull, foreboding. Grey has dominated the sky, pouring misery and rain down. It's been so bad, the premier shopping district flooded again last week. Video footage shows rain pouring indoors, from upper to lower floors.

This week, I'm on the road after a two week break. 41 km is a short, fun ride. 42 km is a long hard run, especially when it is run at night without sleep.

The sun is out today, burning bright in a clear blue sky, with nary a cloud in the sky. I cycle gingerly, testing my ligaments, tendons and muscles. No pain is gain. I cycle sedately until a lorry is ahead of me. I draft on my fat tyres and hit 38 km/h. Nice, that left my woes behind for a while.

Epochal change

2011-05-22T23:35:00.001+08:00

May distance: 471

Punggol, 35 km. There used to be a village here. I know someone who saw the sun rise while brushing her teeth. There were seafood restaurants too. Then, they were all cleared, and the land lay fallow for perhaps two decades. Wide open space, with nothing but beige sand, blue sky and green vegetation. Then, it got boarded up, no entry except for orange bulldozers and other big construction machines. Now, it's a park.

Why were the villagers chased away and the restaurants cleared? Pollution control, progress? Why did the land lie fallow for decades? Now it is going to be a scenic park, to be enjoyed by many. Somehow, I prefer it the way it was, rustic and scenic.

Where do we go from here?

2011-05-17T23:40:00.043+08:00

Lorong Halus, 38 km. Public holiday. "Shake legs" at home, then pedal. Ah, a river without concrete banks, a trail without asphalt. My fat tyres roll with little effort. Then, the trail narrows. Tall grass, soggy ground, pools of black water that swallow my rims and dirt that goes "scrape scrape" between brake pads and rims. Vegetation blocks what's left of the path. But people have been here before me. I walk around the obstacle, the undergrowth wrapping itself around pedals.

Can I tell where the river begins and where the bank ends when I'm off the path? I reach what seems to be a dead end, underneath a bridge. There are two fishermen there, dressed in business casual. I guess they're workers from China. I ask one of them for directions. He certainly didn't cycle to this spot! I backtrack, and meet another mountain biker. He's going past the "dead end" and claims it's passable. He's heading towards storm clouds. Well, I've had enough of water beneath my feet, no thanks to more water from the sky.

As I backtrack, I come across a make-shift bridge and wonder if I should cross to the other bank. I decide to stick to the tried and tested. Good thing I did. Though the grass looked greener on the other bank, it turns out, from a proper vantage point, that there's no trail over there.

Watershed

2011-05-15T22:52:00.016+08:00

Lorong Halus, 51 km. This new decade of this century is so eventful. The Jasmine Revolution takes place in the Middle East. Osama is killed a decade after 9/11. Japan is hit by a triple whammy. In Singapore, the ruling party gets its lowest share of the popular vote ever, which reflects voter disatisfaction.

Things happen to me too, at work and outside work. The year isn't even half-way through. I desperately start looking for the bright side. And go on a bicycle ride. When drowning, light means air. And cycling makes heart light.

Paler shade of white

2011-05-08T21:56:00.001+08:00

Tampines, 65 km. Outside, things look the same except for election posters. But there are invisible changes. My bicycle and I are in red and blue, which is the colour of the political landscape, either on party logos or shirt colour. Yesterday's general election is a watershed: the most number of seats contested since independence in 1965.

I cycle through Hougang, which hammered the incumbent in more ways than one. When the results were announced that it remains in the opposition hands of the Worker's Party, the neighbourhood erupted in cheers - this was past 2am.

My outfit has some black too, for the (ex) general who took the bullet for political reform. Collateral damage; many wish it didn't happen, but it did. "It's not personal, it's just politics," they say. When it was announced that the Workers' Party had taken the ex general's district, the neighbourhood roared and tooted car horns.

According to the BBC, "the opposition wins represent their best performance since Singapore became independent from the Malaysian federation in 1965".

I cycle along park connectors which I never knew existed; good roads wind alongside rivers. I recall the votes pulled by the various ministers. The better ones seem to have higher portion of the votes, the Prime Minister has done particularly well. The opposition party that Won Plenty is the most credible. Let's work together now, at least, better than cyclist vs driver, biker vs hiker!

Peak performance vs crestfallen

2011-05-01T23:50:00.023+08:00

Thu 28 Apr - Sun 1 May
Cameron Highlands, 282 km.

I've cycled up Cameron Highlands before but this is the first time I'm: taking a train with my bicycle to Malaysia; cycling from Gua Musang to Cameron ie going up Cameron from the hard side; and sitting on my Brooks saddle abroad.

Day 1 and 2, Thu 28 Apr-Fri 29 Apr, Singapore-Gua Musang-Cameron Highlands (Kelantan), 137 km. I cycle to Tanjong Pagar Station to board the overnight sleeper train. I spend the night half asleep, but there's no half fare. Bicycle stands in the aisle, strapped in the hope that it will not sidle down or be molested. We arrive at Gua Musang before dawn, where I breakfast on cold rice and chicken. And carry as much water as there is space for: 2.5 litres. There's no food or water for about 90 km before we reach the outskirts of Cameron Highlands; streams and road kill don't count.

Dry rations don't serve me well. I cycle so slowly, houseflies fly circles around me like I'm a carcass. I wave them away when they land; carry your own weight! Google Maps shows the terrain to be like crumpled paper initially, then the road keeps going up and up. The long climbs are tough, as I cycle only 50 km per week, plus training for a marathon in four weeks' time.

VC surges ahead on his Surly, complete with racks, fenders, fat tyres and a 10-litre water bag. I bake in the sun, sweat drips like rain. Then it rains. At that altitude, the rain is piercing cold. Cold, wet and hungry. What more can a cyclo-tourist ask for? A fly-infested shack, where I eat nine fried bananas.

At the hotel, we're told to put the bicycles outside, and to bring it in at night. It is already evening. I say aloud, let's go somewhere else, and the proprietress allows us to put them indoors. Our last climb of the day is up steep steps, four stories high.

Day 3 and 4, Sat 30 Apr-Sun 1 May, Cameron Highlands-Gua Musang-Singapore, 145 km. It's downhill all the way and I like it. I don't realise until today how long the climbs really are. At one point, I hit 64.9 km/h. We reach the outskirts of Gua Musang in early afternoon, where I quaff a litre of Coke. At Gua Musang itself, we check into Fully Inn, the biggest hotel in town, where we'd last stayed in 2005. Today, we're here to shower, chill and wait for our midnight train. It is Kiddy Express, with tots crying and a university undergrad who protests that my bicycle is at the ladder to his bunk. He'd rather I move the bicycle elsewhere so that two bicycles side-by-side will clog up the passageway. I tell him to wake me if he needs help to take down his luggage from his bunk. When teenagers chatter and announce their departure at 5am, I park my bicycle beside an empty bunk.

Epilogue: when I near the crest of hill, my spirit may rise, until I see another long climb beyond the crest, and I know there's more to come, just out of sight. What keeps me going? A "no quit" policy, no ignominy of going up a broom wagon or hitching a ride. VC says we climbed 3,250m (Cameron Highlands itself is 1,500m). I'm glad I didn't know this earlier. If I'd known the future, I wouldn't have started and I wouldn't have lasted till the end. A heavy heart is a heavy load. The other thing that kept me going: songs in my head, specifically Puffy Ami Yumi. I don't know what the Japanese duo sing, but I've not heard a sad melody from them.

Take stock, take heart

2011-04-24T23:29:00.002+08:00

Apr distance: 204 km

Woodlands, 48 km. Yesterday, I scratch my leather saddle badly while tightening my chain rings (yes they are far apart but it's a long story). I fuss over the saddle and apply Proofide gingerly by hand to waterproof it. But cosmetically, the shiny leather finish is finished. Today: while tweaking my brake pads, another accident happens; the bolt is beyond tightening. Would I ever be able to loosen it? I daren't try. Woe is me?

I take stock. My chain rings are tight and the performance is just revolutionary today - and no more creaking noise. The shifting feels better too. My saddle feels better today after I tweak its angle by the roadside; as it gets softer, its performance characteristic and required saddle position changes. And though my brake pad component is ruined (I hope I don't have to loosen it ever!), it seems to work.

Seat of the problem, my foot

2011-04-17T23:42:00.000+08:00

Woodlands, 53 km. Friday night, pound pavement for 2.5 hours at night. Saturday, stand 3 hours to raise funds for Japan (thanks, those who stopped to drop $10, $5, $2 notes, or empty their pockets of loose change. Thanks, moms, who encourage their kids to give. Thanks to the Japanese mom who walked past, then stopped when she heard "Japan" and doubles back to give).
Sunday, feel enervated. I cycle anyway, but it's a struggle. My back hurts, is it because of a maladjusted saddle? Or just overuse on Friday and Saturday? When I reach home, I realise I hadn't buckled my shoes properly. All that loss of power transmission. I took for granted I was tired but i could've done better. Equipment check, regardless of how many times I've done it before - like wearing cycling shoes!

Bad from good?

2011-04-09T21:33:00.003+08:00

Pasir Ris, 36 km. Another training ride today, called for by the newbies last week. Unlike last week, there no volunteer are scheduled for today. I make it home in time to snatch 20 minutes of shut-eye, and roll my bicycle out the door. It's good to be able to help, especially when doing a little can do a lot.

The three of them are late, by 30 minutes. It starts to rain. Under the shelter, I tell them how to wear their helmets safely. The bicycle rental kiosk lady probably never had such customers before; she looks at how serious we are and offers better helmets without being asked to. The rain keeps falling. The lesson continues when I find a "runway" behind the kiosk that's sheltered where they can practise their "take off and landing". One of them, who last cycled 10 years ago and stopped after a downhill crash, takes off just after a few false starts. She veers off the "runway" onto the grass. "I'm already wet," she says. "Keep pedaling," I cheer and she keeps going. Another adult, who'd attended last week, seems to have regressed. She keeps pedaling backwards.

As I cycle home, in the rain, my Brooks saddle has its baptism of rain. Jerk drivers try to cut me off. I cringe as I cycle, half expecting metal against bone. Bad things come in threes? I guess when you do good things and expect good things to automatically come, that's bad.

Take off and landing

2011-04-02T23:46:00.001+08:00

Pasir Ris, 67 km. Someone arranges a cycling session for those who can't cycle. I turn up to help. Most of the thirty who show up have cycled before, a long time ago, or just a handful of times. And some had bad experiences. Perhaps it's coincidence, but cycling is a little like flying. After all, the Wright Brothers had their start in bicycling before flying. Take off and landing are important, cruising is the easier part. With pedal in position, push off and keep pedaling. Keep above stalling speed to cruise, power through turbulence such as uneven ground, keep on the "flight path" to steer clear of other traffic. Slow down and brake to a stop before jumping out of the cockpit. It takes more guts to jump off a moving bike! One "student" starts by scooting on the ground, by the end of two hours, she's cycled on grass, up a small kerb (by accident) and powers her way back on track. She even navigates through a mixed crowd of kids and other cyclists :o

Meanwhile, I have a crick in my neck. But my crank is silent. After a certain bikeshop had wanted to charge me $55 to locate and silence the creak, I went to DIY. After some km of experiments (eg creak when I push down with the right foot, but not with the left, nor when I coast), it turns out a chainring bolt is loose.

Black and white

2011-03-29T22:23:00.000+08:00

Mar distance: 218 km

Woodlands, 58 km. There's right, there's wrong. What if, in the absence of information, a decision is made and progress is made in a certain direction because it seemed right? Then, information that was previously withheld is made available. The direction, while wrong in the light of "new" information, seems to make sense anyway, at least without the benefit of hindsight. We don't know what the future holds, what we have are educated guesses about what could happen. But can anything good come out of something wrong? Can something perfect happen amidst imperfect information?

Inside, outside

2011-03-27T22:55:00.001+08:00

Woodlands, 53 km. In deep sorrow, people seem to reach deep down inside to look for strength. They may say little, perhaps even stay indoors. It's as if, to avoid going out of their minds, they keep it all in. Or maybe it takes a lot to take in what has happened, when the world outside is shaken down and washed away, leaving only the detritus of what was, and a mucky brown smelly world. In the physical world, the hurt lie still, saving energy to rebuild within. I guess it's the same in the emotional world.
In my little world where I can do something, I've washed away the dirt that has encrusted my bicycle for ... wow, I can't recall when was the last time I washed and waxed it. But there's a crank-side squeak that's driving me round the bend. Still, contrary to the weather report, it didn't rain on me today.

Win some, lose some

2011-03-13T22:35:00.001+08:00

Woodlands, 53 km. Getting out to cycle felt like a chore and as I head out I am already looking forward to coming home. I plod along uphill, feeling lethargic after the late morning rain, when a cyclist on a folding bicycle blasts past me. I start up and keep up. There is a slight downhill and he clocks 38 km/h. Big guy on tiny wheels, with a weight advantage when going downhill. I think to myself, he'll be disadvantaged when there's an uphill because of his weight, but then, he's the one who pulled ahead of me uphill. I'm not sure how long more I could've kept up the pace on my fat tyres, and I'll never know as I peel away eastwards at a junction then throttle back while he keeps heading south. Not that it matters. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. What matters is how the "portfolio" does as a whole.

Making up for lost time

2011-03-06T23:30:00.003+08:00

Woodlands, 54 km.I've been up past 1am the past few nights, going online for information on what gizmo to buy. Then I'm up earlier than I like yesterday, not to cycle, but for some housework and family obligations. This morning, like yesterday, I skip breakfast but for some tea. And ride on an empty stomach and a deficit of sleep, surging up slopes like I'm half my age just to see how far I can push myself. As the saying goes, "mind over matter, if you don't mind, it doesn't matter". I suppose the corollary of that is, "If it doesn't matter but you mind, it matters"- which could result in a coronary :o

Monkey business

2011-02-27T00:04:00.000+08:00

Feb distance: 294km.

Woodlands, 58 km. It’s a winding single carriageway. One lane goes this way, the other lane goes the opposite direction. A driver stops his car, takes up an entire lane and opens a window. The monkeys troop out from the forest and open their mouths (to be fed by the driver’s kids) while standing in the other lane for oncoming traffic (and overtaking traffic) to run over them. Or for oncoming and overtaking traffic to crash into each other. So much for the “do not feed the monkeys” signs and fines. I guess some drivers won’t read or even drive properly ...

After I cycle out of the death trap, I come across a bike rally organised by a university. Road marshals, mostly female, some in pairs, some alone, dot the route which includes skirting through a nature reserve. Some marshals stand in the sun while others sit in the shade away from their posts. I marvel at how there is such variation among the marshalls and how safe this place is.

Distance travelled

2011-02-20T22:17:00.001+08:00

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.

From one extreme to another

2011-02-06T22:52:00.001+08:00

Mandai, 47 km. First, the saddle seems to close to the stem, which marks the start of a backache. The further I shift the saddle away, the better I feel, until it’s a shift too far. Time to shift back a little, tilt a little, trial and error. Time will tell. With patience comes perseverance, or is it the other way round? Whatever, millimetre by millimetre, we’ll get there. The saddle rails are only so long.

I cut short the adjustment process by comparing Made in England with Made in Italy. Both saddles are similar in length and shape, even though the rails are of different length and angle. What counts is where the saddle is positioned in relation to the sit bones; it would be folly to look first at the bottom of the saddle (the rails) rather than the top. Once the top is roughly in place, then the bottom will be in place. I lower the seat post height too, since Mr Brooks has ‘higher’ rails.

However, if replacing an old saddle with a new one (same brand and model), then mark the new saddle’s rails based on the old saddle’s position: put the saddles facing each other (like mirror image) and use a marker to mark the new rails according to the markings on the old rails.

Patience, perseverence and contextual knowledge. All of these take time. Sometimes, a lilttle means a lot. Sometimes, a lot of things mean little. Today, I cross the 50,000 km mark ...

Riding on empty

2011-02-04T00:35:00.001+08:00

Kranji, 82 km. A cup of tea and a glass of glucose for good measure. And a cereal bar in my back pocket, just in case, which remains untouched at the end of the day. I've never cycled on such an empty stomach before. With an eye on the sky, I cycle. I hear voices. Turns out to be passengers in a passing car. I hear voices again. I pedal faster. The voices keep up. Turns out to be two roadies asking for directions, not my hallucinations on an empty stomach. The roadies are going totally the wrong way but they keep going. I tell them how they can get back the long way, then I break away. I forget there’re many twists and turns ahead so I give chase and point out the right lane to be in to avoid some scary filtering on a 4-lane road that goes downhill.

The sun still shines so I detour again. I reward myself with a Coke. Now and again, I stop to adjust my saddle. My back hurts, but it’s not the saddle per se, just the adjustment. Trial and error works but first, it’s got to be generally in the right place; major adjustments come first then fine adjustments. Major adjustments, without fine adjustments, don't help. Minor adjustments would take too long. Either way, one might give up too soon.

Italy vs England

2011-02-02T14:57:00.000+08:00

Woodlands, 56 km. Leather boots, leather ball. But this age-old battle that involves me doesn’t have to do with football. It’s with saddles. I’ve worn out two Italian saddles - the classic Selle Italia (estd 1897) Flite (official website states the saddle is due for retirement past 15,000 km). It’s been hard looking for a non-gel version of Flite here. And I’m tired of replacing my saddle every few years. Tour de France cyclists ride thousands of km on handmade in Italy saddles, but legend has it that tourers cycle tens of thousands of km on the venerable handmade in England Brooks (estd 1886).

I get out of bed and rush, not to get to work, but to cycle while the sun shines. It’d been raining for 40 hours (whew, not 40 days). This is my first ride with Brooks. It’s like sitting on a plank if one wears padded shorts. Tap the seat, it sounds like knock on wood. Without padded shorts, it’d be like sitting on concrete. The inaugural ride is uncomfortable, but not painful.

Brooks started when the founder’s horse died and he couldn’t quite afford another one. Someone lent him a bicycle, which left him with a pain in the butt. So he made a leather saddle and the rest is history. The company almost rolled into oblivion but about a decade ago, a rescuer rode in and saved the company. The investor? An Italilan company, Selle Royal (estd 1956) ...

Trade-offs

2011-01-23T22:47:00.004+08:00

Jan distance: 266 km

Woodlands, 47 km. Another evening ride, along a road I’ve not cycled on for a long time. When I’m there, I remember why I’ve not been there for so long - the risk of having to say “so long, farewell”. The kerb side of the road, usually safe ends when a major road joins it in a Y junction which turns into a “merge lane”. So, instead of just fast traffic whizzing by on one side, I’m cycling along a white line with traffic whizzing by on both sides. Hence the saying, “putting your life on the line”.

Nothing bad happens. I trust my bicycle and all its parts especially where the rubber meets the road. As I tear down the streets and go round corners at speed, I take it for granted that my wheels won’t wash out. My tyres are squishy. I let it be so - though the contact patch is bigger and hence I cycle more slowly, I’ve realised it’s worth the trade off of a more comfortable ride.

All alone at home is a stranger - an Orbea. A road bike, with unknown handling characteristics. It’s even got carbon parts! Thoughts of “torque wrench” and “5nm” keep buzzing in my head. My friend lent it to me yesterday, with no return date ...

And the click goes on

2011-01-17T23:15:00.006+08:00

Serangoon, 11 km. Click, click, click. With every pedal stroke, the click drives me further round the bend. I grease the seat post. That usually works - but not this time. Then I remove the seat from the seatpost and grease all contact points. I bounce on the seat, no click. So it must be some rotating part. Not the pedal nor crank, since the click continues when I coast and rock from side to side. The wheels then? I squeeze where the spokes cross each other. There are no clicks when I place the bicycle upside down and spin the wheels. The click stops when I cycle uphill. I hold the handlebars down with my bodyweight and turn. Click, click, click.

I cycle to see bikeshop man. I wait about two hours, as he works on an "are they still in production?" Made in India Hercules bicycle. Then on a Lynskey. Finally, it’s my turn. Bikeshop man takes apart my headset, soaks part of it petrol and says “lots of sand”. Not to mention water that flows out. “Ride in heavy rain?” he asks. I pick up a rag and wipe the head tube. He puts everything back but before the job is done, another cyclist shows up. It’s now past 10 pm. Bikeshop man starts giving advice to him and I finish my own job before paying up and cycling off.

Troubleshooting? Use your head (and ears). Isolate and eliminate, what’s left is the problem. This method (use head and ears) works elsewhere in life too.

Give it a rest

2011-01-16T22:20:00.006+08:00

Mandai, 48 km. Mid-day comes and goes. My nose is running, my throat is burning. I don’t even feel like buying lunch so I microwave some noodles, which takes 1/4 the time to cook pasta. I’m torn between cycling and sleeping. The latter wins hands down and I head down to dreamland. By the time I’m on the road, it’s evening. I’m in such a rush, I forget my water bottle. But i know where to get water; I head to a secluded part of a reservoir where there’s a water cooler. As I tear down the dark grey ribbon of road, I strain my eyes for monkeys and other things that go “bump” in the night. Then I head for a vending machine (at a compressed natural gas pumping station for taxis) that sells drinks for almost 1/2 price.

Today, I log almost the same distance as a ‘usual’ Sunday ride. But without the sunglasses or sunblock. Nor stress of dragging myself out to cycle.

What a difference some sleep and some hours of “being good to yourself” makes.

PS: last week, I posted about how unpredictable life is. Some surprises are nasty. But surprises needn’t catch us by surprise. We may not know when they’ll come, but if they come we can be prepared. It’s like having a tyre pump and testing that it works before packing it, having spare tubes ... Being prepared applies to other parts of life too.

Sprint training

2011-01-09T22:22:00.019+08:00

Lim Chu Kang, 75 km. Today is supposed to be a “cyclist artist” ride, where I take photos, not cycle above lactate threshold. But it wasn’t me. A roadie on a Fondriest overtakes me with a “good afternoon”. I just have to return the greeting. I couldn’t stay ahead of him but could sit snugly on his tail until I turn a different way. Down a road I mistake for another. Fangs for nothing. Four dogs, one leashed, the others not. The "friendliest" one lunges at me. I negotiate. More barking and jumping. As negotiations fail, I flee. I crank up my pace, which turns out to be the doggies’ volume and kinetic energy control. I wonder why jaws didn’t attack and attach to my ankles or calf. Perhaps they were admiring before biting.

At the correct junction, I turn again. More jaws but this time on a sign: “crocodile spotted”. Strange, crocs have scales not spots, right? I spend many minutes here, shooting (photos, not crocs).

As I ride on, I see a scarecrow beside a chicken farm and stop to shoot it. Two dogs are about. The one in front looks at me then looks away. I put away my camera, mount my bicycle and cycle away. Which activates furious barking. Here we go again but this time I’m caught off-guard - after all, Fido had let me go, why does it want me now? I crank up again - this time it’s zero to hero, but uphill. Fido drops away only when I’’m on my big chainring. He stops to scratch itself.

How unpredictable life is. it rains, but I’m camera ready. Dogs with many sharp teeth, but none sink in. Crocs, perhaps, beneath water still and placid.

Look for the bright spots

2011-01-02T23:01:00.003+08:00

Seletar, 43 km. The weather forecast threatens rain. The sky certainly looks as grey as the roads. I wait for the rain to fall and for the sky to clear, but neither happens till hours later. Again, it’s late afternoon when I cycle. I’m off to the place which I want to shoot but minutes later, a drizzle starts.

I head the other way, where the sky is bright. Can’t have everything in life, like clear skies wherever I want, but i can have something - to be wet by sweat but not by rain. What I’d really want is a creak-free bicycle. I greased my seatpost and where the saddle connects to the seatpost, but the creaks aren’t gone.

Seletar has changed so much since I was last here. A little airport with a slice of colonial England, with places llike Picadilly Circus, is now being torn apart. Little country roads have become multiple lanes as befits an aerospace centre. Sure, there’s still some black-and-white bungalows that haven’t gone under the bulldozer, but I reckon the place will have a lot more buzz - the sound of business flying about.

It’s about time

2011-01-01T22:36:00.004+08:00

Sembawang, 42 km. At the stroke of midnight, an old year and an old decade make way for the new. Not as exciting as the turn of a new century but still ... I want to cycle today, but I dawdle. Doing something is one thing but doing it when I want it is another. A little luxury for a brand new day, not to be driven by the imperiousness of the analogue tick tock.

Rest and relax. By the time I head out, it is late afternoon. What I didn’t count on is rain. It rains on my ride and my camera. Oh well, let’s see how well I’ve waterproofed the latter. Not too bad. When the rain is a feathery drizzle, I start shooting. Whoever sang “I love a rainy night” sure wasn’t out cycling or shooting photos.

What can I make of the inaugural ride of the new decade? I could’ve cycled with some friends overseas, or with some roadies, but choose to take it easy. I could’ve cycled when the sun was out, but choose not to. When I'm on the road, a jerk cuts across my right of way and doesn't even look at how close he came to me. I could’ve let the driver ruin my day, but why bother with him. That would be a waste of my time, better to get over that fast.

New year, new decade, new bills?

2010-12-30T00:43:00.001+08:00

Dec distance: 325 km

Serangoon, 12 km. After my rear tyre exploded last week, I pay more attention to the rear wheel. It rumbles. I cycle to Bikeshop1. I'm told the hub is toast. My rims are worn too. The boy gives me two options, Novatech wheelset or a custom-build wheelset with Mavic rims and XT hubs. I hear the cash register ring and my bank account drain. I go home and Google my options. What I find online, is either scant or scary.

Off to Bikeshop2. The man hears no rumble but perhaps he’s hard of hearing? He removes the 18 bearings from the hub, soaks them in petrol and cleans the inside of the hub with a dirty pillowcase dipped into the solution. He says the inside of the hub is ok; it’s not pitted nor grooved. He dips his finger into red lithium grease and coats the hub liberally. I suppose there’s some hair from his pet dog mixed in too. “How much”, I ask. He’s silent until he’s put back the wheel. “$10”, he replies. He declines to service the front hub. “No need,” he says. Both wheels have turned 39,000 km over 7 years, but the weight is on the rear one. He says my 7 year-old rims are worn, but still serviceable. $10 to end my last ride of the year.

Cloud with silver lining

2010-12-26T22:32:00.000+08:00

Kranji, 59 km. The last time I passed here, it was raining. I didn’t have my camera with me anyway, as I suspected it would rain. Today, I pack my camera to shoot the same place.

As I reach the place, it rains. Shoot, I don’t shoot in the rain. I turn back. Bumpety-bump goes my rear tyre. I dismount and look. It looks ok. I cycle on. Bumpety-bump. I cycle on. When the wheel shudders as I brake, I dismount and do another visual inspection. Hmm, the tyre seems to be undergoing plastic deformation. I cycle towards home gingerly, with downhill speed the same as uphill speed. Just when I think I’ll make it home, “bang”! Not a piddling puncture, but a blasted blowout. I pushed it too far, the tyre shreds and the inner tube blows. Now I push on, literally, about 4 km towards home. I walk on grass to save my shoes.

If it wasn’t raining, I wouldn’t have turned back. My tyre would’ve blown. I’d have been stranded somewhere so remote there are no taxis to hail. And no mobile phone with me either. Just as well it was my rear tyre. If it was the front, I may have lost steering control. So, if you must take risks with your wheels, let it be your rear one.

Belief and unbelief

2010-12-25T22:40:00.000+08:00

Jurong West, 100 km. The news reader says, “in Bethlehem, where Christians believe Jesus was born”. Do people say, “where Buddhists believe Buddha was born”, or “where Muslims believe the Prophet was born”? Did the news reader mean Jesus’ birthplace is in doubt, or Jesus’ birth is in doubt? Around the world today, people dress like Santa and go “ho ho ho” but seriously, there’s no fat dude living in the North Pole running a toy factory. We know the factories are in China! Which is why today is not called “Santa-mas” but “Christ-mas” with Christ-mas cards, carols and gifts. So how did Christmas (2,000 years and counting) come about but not Santa-mas? How long does it take to debunk something?

As I ponder this, I cycle off the beaten track. It looks like a dead end and dog country but a man on a lorry says it a through road and no dogs. So I cycle on. A few workers gesture to me that there’s no way out. And I see a dog. Fortunately, it’s had its fill of suckered cyclists and leaves me alone.

I believed the lorry man but it's the wrong guy. I then believed the workers who toil there and my eyes which tell me to back track. To be absolutely sure, when I’m on the main road, I circle around where I was misled. Yes, there’s no way out.

My detour leads me towhere I’ve not cycled before, but I’m not really lost. I believe my compass when it points north. Just because I believe doesn't mean it's so, but some things are really so.

Stay-cation

2010-12-21T22:31:00.000+08:00

Lim Chu Kang, 103 km. Yesterday, I sleep almost 12 hours. Closed eyelids shut out the world and the darkness swallows, albeit for a while, the troubles that confront me. Once in a while, a star shoots across the sky. For a while, it dazzles, then it is gone. On the ground, the mire is still there, poured from above, stirred from below.

I continue my stay-cation. A vacation is when you vacate home and travel elsewhere. A stay-cation is when you spend the night at home. Instead of my usual year-end break, I stay on this little island. Today, I do a century ride. It is so hard to cycle 100 km. I don’t mean it’s hard because I’m on fat tyres. I mean, this island is so small! I detour into housing estates, twisting and turning, which beats going around in circles. On the same journey, I see urban, suburb and rural areas. For the entire journey, it rains not. Once in a while, the heavens give me a break :)

Recovery ride

2010-12-19T21:53:00.001+08:00

Woodlands, 51 km. The back of my right knee hurts. Must be the result of my 42 km run two Sundays ago. The pain goes away after a few km and doesn’t come back. Physiotherapy helps physical pain go away. Is there anything that makes mental / emotional / spiritual pain go away?

Some people believe in karma / retribution, that those who’ve done wrong will get their just desserts. A cosmic calculator that works out the score and distributes the rewards and the punishments. Well, I believe in a Celestial Being, not inanimate but divine, that sees, knows and feels. And born not necessarily on 25 Dec, but on the original Christmas Day :p

I so hope that next year, things will work out better. The last decade was the worst of my life. And I hope you'll have a good year too, the first in a new decade.

Stick or quit?

2010-11-28T22:28:00.001+08:00

Nov distance: 254 km

Woodlands, 52 km. For seven rides in a row, I cycle the same route, with its 25 upslopes and 49 traffic lights. I'm not tired of it yet. Same road, same sights, perhaps what's different is the traffic conditions and the cyclists who pass me. A guy on a titanium frame and carbon chainstays overtakes me. I crank up my wattage and keep up, till I get tired ... tired of following behind. So I surge past and we part ways.

I stop by the same shop for lunch, though I don't eat the same thing as last week. The cook-boss tells me he's in business for 20 years, though the shop I eat at is less than a year old (his other branch is the first branch). He's done well enough to drive a BMW. He says it's a hard business, with long hours.

So how does he keep it up for two decades? He sure can stand the heat in the kitchen. As for me, two colleagues quit, one after 2-3 months. This is after she tells me her time frame was 2-3 years. The other tells me she'll stick around "for a very long time" and it turns out the time frame was weeks. What gives? I don't get it. Perhaps us old sticks in the mud, just stick around too long.

How I long to be back in Cambodia. To cycle far away from home, away from the things that eat me up, to be away where the road is long (photo).

Sunblock, reprise

2010-11-21T22:07:00.001+08:00

Woodlands, 52 km. Sun is out. Sunblock is smeared. Bicycle is rolled out - at a different time, lest I, uh, run into that woman-who-ignores-shouting-cyclist again. I’m still shaken by my experience last weekend. Imagine if I’d skidded and bounced face-first into a parked car’s window or smashed into one of fat mama’s kids ...

Like last week, the sky grows dark, the clouds rumble and thunder roars. Rain pelters down. I sit beside a reservoir and zip up. My jersey I mean. I don’t have to zip up my lips as I cycle solo. I see several other solo cyclists. I guess the pelotons are on the road at dawn, while high noon is for us soloists.

When the rain lets up a little, I stop for lunch. The stall owner is glad to see me. Can’t be that many cyclists who stop to eat his food I guess. We talk a little about his business and he moans about the laws of the land. He says 'we don't have to work anymore" but somehow he still wants to cook, but not over expand his business. He's got human resource problems. Nice lessons there, for those who'll listen and learn. Our chat is like one of the highlights of the week. What a week it's been. Hope the sun shines on me really soon, I'd like to bask in it for a while. Without sunburn.

Sunblock

2010-11-17T22:58:00.000+08:00

Woodlands, 51 km. The sun shines. I smear on sunblock for my dose of cycletherapy. To spice up the ride, I count the number of stop lights. There are 49 sets (each set is two or more traffic lights; a pedestrian crossing would have two, an X-junction would have four or more). This makes almost one set of lights for every km on the route. I sure wish there was a set of lights where I have my accident.

The rain pours down as I cycle downhill. A group of pedestrians cross the road; a big lady with some teenagers. I yell. Lady looks at me, looks away and continues crossing. I jam brakes. Brake blocks grip wet rims. Tyres lock. Forward motion continues. No time for evasive action, no time to brace for impact or wince. Bicycle meets body. She takes 1-2 steps sideways, still carrying her umbrella above her head. No blood is shed. Everyone remains upright, my foot unclips by reflex. Lady giggles and says something which sounds like “I thought highway code says I should launch myself into the path of a cyclist going downhill in the rain and bicycles have anti-lock braking systems”.

Sunblock doesn't block the rain from pouring down, nor blockhead from jaywalking.

Come and go

2010-11-07T21:22:00.004+08:00

Woodlands, 51 km. I arise from my sleep because of a funeral dirge. Drums bang, cymbals clash and do I hear clarinets? The mourners gather in the carpark, dressed in white t-shirts. Someone holds and old lady by the shoulder, I guess it’s the widow.

When they are gone, I go too. Cycling I mean. The same Woodlands route. I'm not quite tired of it yet, but someday I will. Before I do, I'll count how many stop lights there are on the route. I'm sure there are more stop lights than there are upslopes on this route (25).

Two tyres lie in my living room. All worn out. They’re still serviceable, I’m sure I can crank some distance out of them. What I don’t know is, whether they’ll blow. That’s a risk I don’t want to take.

Things don’t last, do they? Or they last, but not in the form they once were. Consider the PIGS: Portugal, Italy, Greece, Spain. Once great imperial powers, especially Italy. Its been around for over two millenia. They used to lord over all. But now?

Somethings don’t last a lifetime. When it comes to relationships, especially blood ties, they last for life. The question is, whether they work or not, and whether they work without working at them.

Mismatch meets match

2010-11-05T21:38:00.000+08:00

Woodlands, 50 km. For the first time, I’ve mixed tyres. All my life, tyres are the same; if one is 1.25”, the other is 1.25”. Today, I have 1.95” semi slicks in front and 2.1” knobbies in the rear. That’s another first; the fattest tyre I’ve used before today was 1.95”. Riding a 2.1” is like riding on a fat cushion of air. Nice. Sometimes I ride over stuff on the road just for fun. I can feel - and hear - the buzz of the knobbies as chemical energy becomes mechanical energy becomes sound. Today, I count the slopes on the route: 25. Slopes they are, I wouldn’t call them hills; that’d be making hills out of molehills. Well, most of them anyway. As I ride up the steepest road, a worker carrying shopping bags stops and stares, then cheers me on. As I reach the top and ride down, he offers me some of his groceries. I smile and wish him “subah Diwali”.

After cycling over two hours, I get home, brew a cup of tea, and start pounding the road. I just want to see what happens when I do my own dualthon. My legs protest. It feels like I feel some way into a half marathon. As I go on, the ache goes away.

Perpetual punctures

2010-10-31T20:40:00.001+08:00

Oct distance: 992 km

Woodlands, 61 km. The past few days, I patch and replace innner tubes. Pump them up at night, find them flat the next day. Find more holes, patch them, pump them up. Check tyre, find bits of glass and stone, gouge them out. Tubes still go flat, including from where the rubber meets the valve. Must've done this at least six times. I run out of tubes, buy new ones. Bikeshop man says, things aren’t the way they used to be. Inner tubes aren’t latex anymore, they have a shorter lifespan. Perhaps that’s why holes keep appearing when I pump my fat tyres to 50 psi. No point fixing the tubes anymore. Is that what happens to people too? Under pressure, they deflate. You can patch them, but some just go. And tubes have to be the right size for the tyre - unless you’re out of tubes and have to make do. And when you make do, the tubes eventually go.

I stop by my regular mechanic to replace the chain (the other shop has a tool that tells me the chain is so worn, a new chain will skip). Regular bikeshop man says if the chain skips, it’ll be because of the smallest cog; just run the chain for a few months on other cogs. Indeed, the chain skips like a happy school girl out of school on her way to get a new dress.

Bikeshop man might’ve saved my life too. He says my tyre is frayed. Huh? It just looks like a scratch to me. He holds it to the sky and ... light comes through in places. It's as if someone took a sewing machine needle to the tyre. He says, just a bit more pressure and it’ll go boom. Imagine that, if I’m whizzing downhill beside passing traffic.

Wetter doesn't matter

2010-10-24T22:35:00.001+08:00

Woodlands, 50 km. After suffering in Sarawak, I accidentally reset my cyclocomputer to zero. There goes tens of thousands of km on my odometer. Then I notice the sensor hangs by a bit of plastic and promptly breaks, which I superglue back. As I head out of home, the leg of my sunglasses snap off. And a lift door nearly slams into my bicycle. As I finally get on the road, the drizzle turns into a downpour so heavy, it goes "ting ting ting" on my bell. I cycle on anyway. Usually, I'd cuss the rain as I dislike getting wet. But since I'm wet from the word go, there's no need to avoid rain, which will wash off my sunblock and keep me cool. When you're already wet, wetter doesn't matter. I'm happy to be able to cycle today and get home in one piece notwithstanding the bus that pulls out when my rims and brake blocks are wet.

Back to Borneo

2010-10-16T21:05:00.115+08:00

Sat 9 - Sat 16 Oct

Sarawak, 784 km (alternative title for this post: suffering in Sarawak)

Prologue
This is my longest charity ride yet, with BikeAid (Singapore), in conjunction with Lions Clubs in Singapore and Sarawak. Quite apart from the fact that I could confirm my participation in this ride only three weeks before its start, there are three ominous omens: official bicycle charity ride jersey does not fit, there is a problem with my airline booking (eventually solved) and a few days before take off I discover a problem with my drive train (eventually mostly solved). This would be my 10th major expedition.

Boxing day
Day 1: Sat 9 Oct, Singapore to Kuching, non-cycling day. Baggage boys seem to delight in finding new bicycle boxes to bash. My immaculately undented box picks up two ghastly foot-long gashes in just one flight. Another guy has his bicycle hard case bashed so badly it loses a wheel. The Customs officials take an interest in our boxes. I wouldn't say we were detained; we certainly weren't herded into a room for interrogation. We mill about as a phone call is made so that the paperwork (proving we weren't crazy, we were indeed in town for a charity ride) is produced. Fortune takes a turn for the better. It turns out my room mate has all the bicycle jerseys. I trade my S for his L, which is too small for him. He'll give my S to his 6-year old kid. And why did I order an S? Because, being a Small Asian Dude, my jerseys are either S or even XS. As it turns out, just about everyone else finds their official jerseys too small.
Nightstop: Four Points

Automatic transmission
Day 2: Sun 10 Oct, Kuching to Seri Aman, 190 km. Lions Club dignitaries turn up in force to pray for our safety and send us 15 cyclists off. The first few hills lead me to ask myself, "Is this it?" Of course not. Soon after, I'm trundling uphill at below 5 km/h. And it rains. I worry about going downhill. What lurks beneath those puddles - a pinch flat? high speed blowout? ticket to judgement day? Nah, just spray. My chain keeps shifting on its own; from the smallest cog to the next and vice versa. When it shifts, I click instead of the other way round. To remove the confusion, I fiddle with the barrel adjuster by feel as I cycle, until automatic transmission becomes manual. I arrive at the hotel at 6pm. That's 10 hours on the road including breaks. Two others are ahead of me, one on a Trek carbon roadbike and the other on a Conalgo hybrid. I log 64.7 km/h going downhill, I wonder how they did.
Nightstop: Regent Inn

Discounted travel
Day 3: Mon 11 Oct, Seri Aman to Sarikei, 167 km. Six hours of sleep after accumulated sleep deficit is barely enough for me. There's barely a cloud in the clear blue sky. In the blazing heat, I blaze ahead, being the second to reach the lunch point, behind Conalgo dude who has a blistered toe and carbon crank arms. After lunch, I lie down (beneath a ceiling that looks like hub and spokes) as there is time for a siesta. Others join my lead ... When I get up, I overdose on isotonic drink and have a rumbly in my tummy. I send down a combo of 2 tablets and a capsule to sort things out and I cycle again.

As the road crosses rivers, the bridges remind me of Timor Leste. This ride sure feels like Tour de Timor - race against time, sometimes skipping rest points. These mobile rest points (support vehicles) are spaced out every 10 km. This doesn't sound far, but the rolling hills sure make sweat roll fast and the km slow.

As I carbo load, I realise I'm like a hamster. I stuff my face then spin. Later, I see a nice place to eat again: a bus stop inlaid with mosaic beside a park. A support vehicle stops, tops up my fuel and proceeds to chase down one more guy in front. As it turns out, a few minutes ahead is a compulsory stop. Change in plans.

All our bicycles go up the support vehicles so we can ride - in the cars - nearer to town. There, with traffic police escort, we cycle into town. Some people breakaway. "Would you like me to chase them down?" I ask Chief Cyclist. "How are you going to do that?" By sprinting ahead then slowing down to 15 km/h. Why was our distance cut short? a) the ride took longer than anticipated and there is an official dinner. b) thee is a steep downhill with a elbow bend which, if mishandled, may lead to more than scraped bloody elbows.
Night stop: Dragon Inn

Cycling on ceremony

Day 4: Tue 12 Oct, Sarikei to Sibu, 53 km. Today's ride is ceremonious, with police outriders again.

We cycle at a controlled pace, first to a spectacle shop which offers free eye tests and spectacles to poor school kids, who go for means test and eye test. I hear some spectacles have come from Singapore opticians. We make such a spectacle of ourselves, we end up as a full page story in the next day's Chinese newspaper.

Things are back to 'normal' after that: us Fearsome Four blaze the way to Agape Centre in Sibu, which houses several non-profits eg Association for Children with Special Needs, then to Sarawak Society for the Blind and Methodist Children's Home (for the latter, there are gifts of stationery).

Our hotel is so high class, bicycles aren't allowed into the rooms :o I sure miss it; I can't use it as a clothes rack. High-end hotels have hangers that hang only in cupboards, and I can't hang just-washed-in-the-sink bicycle clothes in there, can I? Still, it's a nice room, and we get one in the corner.

Ceremonies continue with a formal dinner, where Lions are dressed to kill. There is food, speeches, District Governor as guest of honour, violin solo, a Chinese guy singing Italian opera, and dancing girls - not that kind of dancing girls for this is a dignified dinner - I refer to a fan dance.
Nightstop: RH Hotel

Slipping into slipstream

Day 5: Wed 13 Oct, Sibu to Bintulu, 246 km. Morning call 4.30 am. Breakfast 5 am. Flag off at 6 am. Ok, 20 minutes later than that. This is the longest day. I so want to finish the ride. Lunch at 10 am. Half an hour later, I'm off. Speeding downhill, dodging potholes. Nice, on a nippy mountain bike. I also have fun chasing the slipstream of passing timber truck with long loads of sawn timber. At a rest stop, I hear a cyclist has crashed: a rear wheel has knocked a front wheel off balance. I ask the medic for news, he says face plant with multiple abrasions, victim is hospitalised for observation. The Fearsome Four become the Three Terrors, one of whom cycles so light, he doesn't even carry sunblock. I'm told it can get as hot as 42 degrees Celsius, I'm glad I didn't know that then.

Back on the road, I see a man in a conical straw hat with diving mask in one hand and spear gun in the other. Later on, I see a hunter with a straw basket and rifle. I also see death metal hurtle towards me, as a vehicle goes the wrong way in my lane while overtaking traffic. I wave it away; like magic, it goes away.

At a stop point, I hear a crew member talk to another cyclist about me. "Ah, I see, it's smaller so he has to work harder." They could be talking about my wheels or cranial capacity.

Hills, hills, hills. To console myself, I think of Laos where the climb is long and Timor Leste where the roads are rough. Most cyclists are in the support vehicles. There is some talk that all of us have to ride in cars. A senior support crew member says, "ride on". Even when I'm stopped later by another crew member, senior dude tells me, "Ride on." So I get back on my bicycle and oblige. Only three of make make it all the way to Bintulu, where local mountain bikers and a police car escort us to a stage for another ceremony, where sponsors are honoured and we're garlanded on arrival and thoughtfully plied with drink and cake before a late dinner. A guy shakes my hand, "Congratulations, Hamster." Another asks for a group photo of us Three Terrors. I've finally broken my personal best distance, which was 225 km in one day.
Nightstop: Li Hua Hotel

Easy day is hardest day
Day 6: Thu 14 Oct, Bintulu to Miri, 128 km. Morning call 4.30 am, breakfast at 5, flag off at 5.45 going on 6.20. Today's distance is merely hundred plus. I am so slow, W asks if I'm ok before overtaking me. At a rest stop, A asks what I'm doing back there; I usually whizz past the first rest stops and few cyclists see me except at the start and finish. Yesterday was my best day, I do overtime so today my body is off. Or did it help that yesterday I wore a jersey that reads "Borneo Motors"?

As I near lunch point, I perk up. But things continue to go wrong. Km after km, I cycle on. No food in sight. Every glint in the distance, I hope is a support vehicle. Hopeless. I'm a goner. I see a shack by the road and break out my emergency rations. My butt is busted too, so I cool it for 15 minutes.

I get up and go, to make the next food point an hour away. Alas, that's not to be. I come across W who tells me "change in plans". Cyclists are being rounded up and driven to lunch point. So there you have it, a veteran who's completed all of Tour de Timor is in the broom wagon for Sarawak. It seems only four cyclists make it all the way today (and for the entire expedition, only two made it all the way past 800 km, one on a Trek the other on Cervelo). After lunch, we're driven to the outskirts of town under police escort to Pusat FDK Miri for more photo opportunities like cheque presentations. The cycling is over. At the grandest dinner of all - about 20 tables - people go on stage to be thanked. About RM80,000 raised for eight charities, I hear.
Nightstop: Eastwood Valley Golf and Country Club

The seat of the problem
Day 7: Fri 15 Oct, Miri to Kuching, non-cycling day. My bicycle box takes another two hits from the airport baggage bullies. That's way too many; my previous box (which I bought in Thailand) survived seven flights to Cambodia, Timor Leste and Brunei, and retired after the cardboard got too "floppy". I patch up the box then get help for myself - massage for my legs. I scream like a girl - actually, worse - as the girl next to me looks at me bemused since the worst she goes is a soft "ouch".

The injured rider is out of hospital. I tell him his battle scars are more honourable than mine, he tells me not to make him laugh as his mouth hurts.

Dinner is at a Lion dignitary's home. Ten cars driven by Lions take us to the multi-millionaire's home. The fleet of cars parks in the driveway with room to spare. We run out of space in our tummies as we gorge on local delicacies.

I reflect on why I'd a bad ride yesterday (crewman tells me I've done 95% of the ride; to me, anything less than 100% is "fail"). The answer is too little sleep, too much confidence. There's a rhyme, there's a reason. Things I relearnt in the last hundred km of a 800 km ride: 1-2 buckle my shoe, 3-4 eat lots more, 5-6 lubricate, 7-8 tyres inflate, 9-10 contingency plan ... If only I'd eaten more of that less than appetising breakfast, pumped up my tyres and not counted on that supposed foodstop at 80 km. Worst of all is the pain in the butt; even coasting was a sore affair.

Baggage bullies bounce bikes

Day 8: Kuching to Singapore, non-cycling day. I wonder how our bicycle boxes get so bashed up. Today, I have the good (or bad) fortune to see for myself. Why stand on ceremony when baggage loaders stand on bicycle boxes and pass the buck / box to another guy in the belly of the aircraft. All the "fragile" stickers are for decoration. Ok, they are more useful than that; fragile stickers help hold box together after it gets bashed.

My thanks to the Lions. They provide the support vehicles, turning up at wee hours of the morning and driving us to and from dinner. In cars that start and stop, they ride and jump out into the blazing sunlight, bearing bananas, bread, water, isotonic drink. They cheer us on, give us directions. At lunch stops, they sometimes pay for us, or someone has supplied the food. They gave their energy and money. Thank you so much.

Yanking my chain

2010-10-07T23:50:00.000+08:00

Hougang, 20 km. The tell-tale signs were there. Over 500 km ago, my chain would, while being cleaned, do a little skip as I spin the crank backwards. Figuring it was a stiff link, I ignored it. Until last night. Instead of a little skip, it does a big leap upward then jams. It seems to behave itself when I ride though. Should I risk it in Borneo next week, all 800 km of it? Being pusillanimous (or is it prudence?), I call bikeshop man today. He closes shop at 11 pm, so I cycle after work to meet him. Bicycle creaks with excitement especially when I stand on the pedals. I describe the symptoms to him. He spins here, spins there, but the chain behaves well and spins silently compared to the roaring embarrassment I feel.

Desperate, I say, “look, it’s as if some of the cogs are bent, see how they tilt”. He removes the wheel and says, “look, the cassette is so loose I can remove the nut (referring to the cassette, not me) with my bare hands”. He tightens the nut. $4 for his labour. And off I go. Back home, the chain still does a little jig. And so do I.

Tired tyre

2010-10-03T21:43:00.001+08:00

Lim Chu Kang, 77 km. What a week it’s been. A member of parliament dies. A helicopter (an Apache, no less) falls from the sky. Mrs Lee Kuan Yew dies. And I see a throwaway line in an article in the most influential local newspaper which sets off alarm bells and keeps me awake. All these, in the tail end of the week.

All this is too much for me. The thought of the next five days is scary too. And after that, about 800 km of uphill climbs in Borneo. Time to start rolling. I blast past a few roadies, but when I’m spent, they zip past. They stop to rest, I don’t; a few short minutes later, they overtake me again. Suitably chastened, I fall in line obediently. But I can’t keep up and fall behind. They stop, I don’t but this time they don't chase.

After over two hours in the saddle, I stop too. It’s been a hard week, surely an ice-cream will cool things down. I choose a rainbow-coloured one to brighten up my life and catch my breath. I’ve aged and slowed down, haven’t I? Or is it that run last night? Or the Fri night at work?

I look at my rear tyre, I see the wear and tear. It’s a matter of time before it retires, which is a nice way of saying, it’s refuse. But that’s the fate of a tyre isn’t it? it doesn’t even have a choice of where it’s rolling. We’ll all die, at least we have some say where we’ll go in life.

Seeing red

2010-09-26T20:14:00.002+08:00

Sep distance: 482 km

Lim Chu Kang, 73 km. A "red belt" is not what I wear, it is what I am in when one traffic light after another is red against me. This really scrubs my average speed, because I slow down gradually and have to pick up speed again.

I cycle one of the hilliest routes I can find on this little island. I shouldn't even call them hills; that would be making hills out of molehills. They are slopes. Without a heart rate monitor, I monitor my breathing instead. I ride a tad below gasping level. The only time I stop is at traffic lights, to catch my breathe.

At a Y junction, as I go straight, a red car cuts across my path within spitting distance to squeeze into the side road. "Bully!" The wind shreds my protest. I hope the passenger has seen enough to fear for her life in the hands of the driver. At another junction, I inhale sharply when I see a driver with a phone glued to her ear. I let her move off first. Better to trail in her wake than for me never to wake up ...

After cycling two hours, thoughts of ice cold Coke appears in my mind. I keep going. This is serious training, in the early afternoon, to prepare me for a multi-stage charity ride in Sarawak next month. Better get used to it boy! So, ice cold black liquid with brown froth in a red can, is only in my mind. As for the red belt, perhaps I imagine it too. Perhaps the number of red lights I come across today is about the same as before, just that with two red lights in a row, I pay more attention to red lights today compared to past rides. What you pay more attention to, is what happens more often?

Lame excuse

2010-09-19T18:35:00.000+08:00

Woodlands, 48 km. My foot. It's hurt for about a week. Since last weekend, when I ran 21 km. Having run a half-marathon once a year for three consecutive years, this year's run is the most painful yet. The past years were a breeze. Which is why I signed up for this year's. It's a walk in the park, right? No, because of the "after-effects". Still, it's nice to know that in the last 10 km, I overtook over 1,100 runners. What I don't is, will I be able to cycle today? After all, I'd have to unclip and put my foot down at traffic lights. And would my foot seize up? Still, no lame excuse not to cycle today; I've signed up for a 800 km charity ride next month :o Though my foot tends to hurt with every step (especially the first few steps), cycling isn't that bad. Perhaps it's because most of my weight is on the saddle.

Rather than risk having a sore foot and stranded somewhere, I do a short ride though, at the charity ride briefing, group leader says "no 50 km rides, that's not enough". I chase a roadie today and ride close to my lactate threshold a lot of the time.

Tip: to know whether I'm at lactate threshold, I listen to my breathing. If I gasp like a goldfish out of water, that's supposedly the threshold. I also pedal better, consciously pulling up one leg as the other one pushes down.

The toughest, the highest

2010-09-08T23:28:00.003+08:00

Sat 4 Sep - Sun 5 Sep

Kota Tinggi to Kuala Rompin to Kota Tinggi, Johore, Malaysia 361 km.

Different cyclists, same results

Day 1, Sat 4 Sep, Kota Tinggi to Kuala Rompin. The rule is, at the start, start slow. Let those who want to go fast, go. Time and again, the rule has proved to be immmutable - especially if you know the lead cyclists. Full carbon road bicycles vs aluminium mountain bike. I've barely five hours of sleep. And I cycle to the start point.

"But this time it's different," I tell myself. I don't know the lead riders, maybe I can keep up. And I do. For a while. Then, I drop back like a kite with a cut string. I end up cycling alone. The support crew drive by to check on me once in a while, to see if I'm alive or a zombie. To help me save calories, one of them, from sponsor Equinix, even tops up my water bottle and peels bananas for me. From what he tells me, I gather I'm in the 40-50th percentile. I'm fast, but not as fast Father Time, who's fast catching up with me. To keep up with the young triathletes on tri-bikes, I rest less frequently - just a few minutes at water points and I'm off.

This Charity Bike & Blade (the 5th in the series) is mind-numbing. It used to be just to Mersing, with one long stretch of rolling hills. Now, there's those hills, plus those at Endau. It take too much energy to even play songs in my head. So I just aim for the crest of each hill and focus on my form, including my breathing. That's living in the moment. No more music in the head, that's too tiring.

One breath at a time

Day 2, Sun 5 Sep, Kuala Rompin to Kota Tinggi. It rains heavily at night. The road is wet, the rooster tail of water sprays from wheels, whirring and humming. Cycling at 16 km/h at the start to warm up is too slow for me. I do my usual 20 km/h warm up then crank it up to 25 km/h. The roadies catch up. Unlike yesterday, this time, I don’t chase. Until someone in white shorts comes along at 32 km/h. We take turns to draft each other.

As cyclists pass, I see compression leggings, aero-bars, high-end full carbon bicycles. Shorts are in different colours, but we wear identical white Uvex helmets and lilac jerseys - the official colour of St Luke’s Eldercare. There are 98 or so cyclists, we raise about $360,000 for charity, the highest ever.

Unlike in the initial 3 years of Bike n Blade, where there were more people on mountain bikes, the numbers dwindle in the subsequent two years. This year, there are only 2 mountain bikes. My small wheels and small crank churn to keep up. At one point, I end up pulling a peloton along as no one wants to take the lead. I soon end up cycling solo; spent after pulling people along and I can’t keep up thereafter. What a difference a few km/h makes.

Few people stop to eat, except for lunch. This is a high performance crowd, stops are only at support vehicles - especially the 100-Plus truck that comes with ice-box. someone asks if he can have a few cans to put on his burning butt.

This year’s Bike n Blade is toughest. Besides the rolling hills to Mersing, there's the Endau hills. My heart falls when I am at a crest and see a series of rolling hills ahead. As I cycle, I think of Laos - if I can make it up those 1,500m mountains, i can make it here. Near the end, I think of my marathon run. If i can finish that, i can finish this.

I see road kill, grotesque in death. If it’s too mangled, I look away. Otherwise, I identify it - to keep my mind off the ride. There are snakes, cats, dogs. Sometimes, birds peck away at scraps on the road. If the road kill is fresh, I hold my breath. I also see hills, denuded of oil palm, with trails snaking up. How I want to ride there instead of on the road.

I hurry to catch the 3pm bus ride back to Singapore. Bicycles are gingerly placed in luggage compartments or on passenger seats, with cling-wrap or bubble wrap. When we disembark, I choose to cycle home, the same way I start the ride.

Tips: when tired, moaning doesn't make the climbs easier. Instead, focus on form, live in the present - how to pedal, how to breathe. All that's needed is to cycle up this crest, and the next, one at a time. Break time up into 15 minute chunks, with a sip of drink as a treat. Don't have to last hours, just last 15 minutes, and the next, one chunk at a time.

Shouldn't have, could have

2010-08-29T22:30:00.000+08:00

Aug distance: 355 km

Changi, 55 km. Changing a bottom bracket shouldn't affect the front derailleur shifting, but it does. I turn the barrel adjuster, turn the screws, then cycle to bikeshop man for expert opinion. He fiddles some more then says "ok". He could've charged me for the service, but doesn't. My front derailleur plates shake though the entire assembly is clamped tightly on the seat tube; I ask if it's time to change it. He says, "no need" and declines to make a quick buck off me. I cycle around his shop, with his screw driver in hand, until I'm content that the shifting is just so. Then I cycle to the easternmost end of the country, to buy a bag for my top tube. So I can stuff it full of calories and other stuff for the coming weekend's two-day, 400 km charity ride.

I'm going to need the calories and the sleep. This week, an intense week including a 1-hour forum on radio and some human resource matters. Then 400 km to cycle. And, 21 km to run the weekend after that :0

When early is late

2010-08-22T21:34:00.000+08:00

Lim Chu Kang, 71. I usually cycle in the late morning (except that, for most people, cycling so late in the day is unusual since they ride at dawn). Today, I laze about and have lunch before I cycle, which means I'm on the road in the early afternoon. Early afternoon is usually when I get home, followed by the view of the inside of my eyelids. Instead, I'm awake as adrenalin pumps as fast as my heart as traffic buzzes me. I see there's a new sport in town among motorists, to see how close they can brush past cyclists.

As I cycle, I can't wait to get home. My mind is filled with thoughts of a nice cold drink, with lots of ice. Meanwhile, my head pounds, my eyes smart from being dried out by the wind and my legs burn. And I soon feel sleepy, because my legs pump like pistons when they are usually still in sleep as I nap. I want to keep going but dark clouds hang low on the horizon, sort of like the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. Any excuse to cut short the ride, so I head home.

Double trouble, double pedal

2010-08-15T18:52:00.003+08:00

Lim Chu Kang, 95 km. Two bad things happen on Fri, which affect my sleep. On Sat, I don't quite want to eat. On Sun, I just feel like doubling my usual mileage, partly because of next month's charity ride and partly because I have so much energy - or is it angst? or a new bottom bracket that feels so good? As I head out, a neighbour sees me in my cycling gear and says "wow". Not because of how good I look, but because it is drizzling.

On the road, I see a roadie ahead and give chase. To narrow the gap, I shift to the big chain ring. Click, click, click, where's the power surge? I look down and see the chain around the crank. As this is a non-stop ride, I get the chain back on the chainring and overtake the roadie. I play with the front derailleur cable, until the chain somewhat behaves. But at a steeper slope; under higher load, the chain sticks again. More fiddling, and the shifting seems to work fine.

I start to weary, my legs burn, but I keep going. Strangely enough, I don't feel hungry though all I have for breakfast is a little packet of cereal (without water, just chew it like cereal in a cereal bar - but without a bar that gets crushed). The only water I drink, I what I carry. The only rest stop I get is when I stop at traffic lights. And for a train. It would be ironic to say, "I'm out to train, I won't stop, not even for a train."

When I get home, the sun shines.

I wonder if the cereal packet holds a lesson for me. It's frustrating to eat a cereal bar or biscuit that's all crumbled. So, might as well eat crumbs right? Just pour it down the hatch. From making a virtue of necessity to double loop learning?

Worn out and cranky

2010-08-14T21:54:00.001+08:00

Serangoon, 16 km. My crank shakes even when the bicycle is stationary. I cycle to see bikeshop man. He tells me the bearings are worn out and the entire bottom bracket has to be replaced. Although his shutters (the shop's, not his eyelids) are half shut, he doesn't turn me away. As I didn't expect that I have to replace the entire assembly but just ball bearings, I didn't have much money with me. I hand bikeshop man all my cash. Bikeshop man rounds the price down so I have $5 left in my pocket.

When I left home, I'd wanted to train for next month's charity ride. But dark clouds hang menacingly overhead. The overcast leaves me downcast and I cycle home. Yesterday was a sad day - a team member's last day in the office. And another member gives me bad news in similar vein. I wonder if the sun will shine tomorrow. I desperately need some sunshine in my life.

Tech note: the broken bottom bracket, installed in Jan 2005, has spun for almost 30,000 km. At home, I listen to my new toy. To hear your bottom bracket sing, place your ear on the saddle (with ear still attached to head of course, or else sound quality will be affected). Then turn the crank. If the bottom bracket makes a racket, it sounds like trouble. My new toy sounds so good, a nice smooth rrrrrr. It rides smooth too.

Bait and switch

2010-08-09T23:19:00.001+08:00

Lim Chu Kang Road, 71 km. How I want to laze about on this public holiday, National Day. The thought of training for next month's charity ride puts me off. Ok then, no laps, no interval training. I pack my camera. Just go out and cycle for fun, that’s the bait. The sun is out and blazing. As it to be expected. It hardly ever rains on National Day. Don’t rain on the parade!

I stop and snap photos wherever, whenever I like. Places that had unforgettable memories (eg where I donated blood just to get beyond the barb wire a couple of hours out earlier). Places that had dogs chase me in the dead of night. Places where, in 1942, people fought to the death to defend the mangrove shoreline from invading Japanese. It’s so peaceful now.

When there are hills and slopes, I charge uphill. That’s the switch, no mind-numbing laps, just the thrill of cranking uphill.

As I cycle past military installations, I hope I’ll see the hardware on the roads or take to the air. I see none of them; I must be too late. I rush home to watch the parade on TV. Majullah Singapura!

Pull factors, push factors

2010-08-07T19:41:00.007+08:00

Mandai, 47 km. I’m so tired, from sleep deficit bulit up over the work week. When a key appointment holder quits, someone I dearly want to keep, there's the emotional load and the workload to be spread around the team with care. Soon-to-be ex colleague even recommends a replacement and goes through the CV :0

Today, I feel tired even after an afternoon nap. Being tired of feeling tired is the push factor for me to go out the door to cycle. But even before I’m out of the house, I already look forward to coming home. The pull factor is that by training, I won’t suffer so much during next month’s charity ride.

Cyclists are out in force. I see a recumbent and a dozen foldies, in addition to the usual roadies and mountain bikers. Also out, to get me, are two dogs. I hear them before I see them. Fierce barks from across the road. Two black shapes hurtle out across two lanes, locked on my scent, hot on my trail. Their nails click on the road. I am fortunate in my misfortune: I could’ve been on their side of the road going uphill. They have no chance of gnawing on my bones as I crank it up, speeding downhilll. By now, I’m wide awake.

Slow leak vs blowout

2010-07-31T23:59:00.000+08:00

Jul distance: 187 km

Mandai, 39 km. My tyre is flat. How does a tyre go flat after I park my bicycle? I expect grit has cut through the tyre into the inner tube. I'm wrong. There is a big hole at the base of the Presta valve. And that's the end of the inner tube; not only is it beyond economic repair, how can such a hole be repaired in the first place?

I change the tube and do interval training for a charity ride next month. Training is boring. As I cycle, I ruminate.

Life has been likened to a roller coaster, with ups and downs. Life has also been likened to a railway track. While one part of life may be up, parallel to it is another rail that may go down. With respect, the second metaphor reflects life better than the first, but is more metaphysical than physical. One rail that goes up while the other goes down spells "train wreck".

For me, life is like an inner tube. No pressure and life is flat. Too little pressure, roll along fine, even comfy, until there's a pinch flat. Too much pressure, explode. If punctured, get to the destination if there's a slow leak. Or not, if it's a blowout and there's no spare tube or and tools. And it's no use having tools without the know how to change the tube. The ride is over dude unless someone helps out. And the puncture keeps recurring unless the cause is fixed: remove whatever is embedded in the tyre. Otherwise, keep changing the tube and pump up the tyre and patch the inner tube ad infinitum.

Ending like the beginning

2010-07-18T19:28:00.002+08:00

Woodlands, 48 km. Yesterday morning, it rains so hard, parts of Singapore flood again; it seems more rain fell in a few hours than usually falls in July. This morning, the roads are wet and the skies are grey. I wait till the roads are less wet, so that spray from the road doesn't end up on my cycling togs. When I head out the door, I see the drizzle. I'm committed mentally to cycle so I do. I don't like cycling in the rain. We wear "quick dry" clothes so we stay dry, don't we? The drizzle turns into a shower. I could turn back, but I don't. The task is the same but the purpose has changed. Now, I want to see how big the rain cloud is. As it turns out, really big. The sky from the centre of the island all the way into the next country is a monotone of grey. The rain pours down. Even motorcyclists shelter at bus stops. This time, I'm physically committed; I'm just too far from home. To go home, I have to finish the ride. As I near home, the rain turns into a drizzle and the roads start to dry. Just like when I started. Only, this time, I'm chilled to the bone instead of bone dry.

Do I feel better after the ride? Yes, because the ride is done. If I didn't cycle, I might've rued not cycling at all. And to be warm and snug after a cold ride sure feels better when it's well earned.

A little distance, a big difference

2010-07-11T21:58:00.003+08:00

Woodlands, 50 km. My handcrafted-in-Italy, titanium-railed Selle Italia Flite has seen better days. 49 months ago, thousands of km ago. While it is not torn, scratched nor cracked, it is wrinkled. As wrinked as a weather-beaten, aged face that has been sat on. It seems to sag a little in the middle, which is enough to give a pain in the butt after a few hours of cycling. So I shift it (the saddle, not the butt) 5 mm forward, so that the sit bones sit properly on the saddle again. This little distance seems to make a difference to comfort, but time (and over a hundred km day after consecutive day) will tell.

Yesterday, I went for physiotherapy. The therapist says my back ache has to do with the tightness in my hamstring and calf. He also says my right leg is clearly stronger than my left. Which might explain why my right leg got injured from marathon training and saddle sore is not equitably spread across the bum.

Likelihood and magnitude

2010-07-04T21:08:00.000+08:00

Woodlands, 50 km. Grey skies here. Grey skies there. The road is wet from an early morning shower (no, I don't mean my bathwater flowed onto the road; I don't get up that early anyway). Will it rain or will it shine? I hedge and put on sunblock but do not wear sunglasses. If the sun does come out, it is likely that I will be toasted. I cycle past a man dressed in trousers, long sleeves, knee guard and baseball cap. No helmet. If he falls, he would hurt his knees. Magnitude of the hurt, should the risk materialise, would be small. However, a knock on the head, can have a large magnitude of hurt. The sun does come out. I don't get sunburnt. I wonder if I've increased the risk of retina "sunburn" and cataracts when I get older.

Laws of cycling irony

2010-06-28T19:32:00.003+08:00

Jun distance: 201 km

Woodlands, 50 km. When I awake, the wind blusters and rain pelts down. I head back to sleep. When I open my eyes again, the sun beats down. As I head out the door, there's a feathery drizzle over here. But over there in the distance, I see blue sky. It's safe to ride - weather-wise.

It's dangerous to ride traffic-wise. At a X-junction, a car from the opposite direction turns right across my downhill path. The driver might as well have stopped and opened his door to let me in. I brake and yell. At a T-junction, a driver slips his car out from the side road in slow motion. That's driving dangerously cautiously. I brake and yell. At another X-junction, another driver does the same as the other drivers: when a cyclist is with a red bicycle and red jersey, the light is no longer green in the cyclist's favour, but red. As I go down another hill, a car meanders in front of me across three lanes to turn right. I'm so astounded, the sight takes my breath away.

Here are my "laws of cycling irony". #1: when traffic going in cycling direction is light, braking is heavy. Conversely, if traffic is heavy, braking is light. If vehicles (or better yet, a big truck) is beside cyclist, would drivers have pulled the stunts they did? Probably not. If they did, it wouldn't be cyclist in car. It would be car in truck. #2: when traffic is heavy and pollution is high, cyclist breathing is easier as no yelling of warnings are needed. The slipstream is akin to drafting too, hence less effort expended. #3: it is safer to ride in heavy traffic (heading in cycling direction); even if drivers coming from the other way don't see / ignore cyclist, traffic in cycling direction would plough into errant vehicle before cyclist does, push errant vehicle forward and give hapless cyclist more braking distance.

I've read and heard warnings about Vietnam traffic. I wonder if it's worse than Singapore drivers. Four near misses in 50 km is awesomely awful. Well, I'll find out for myself at year's end.

Do you C?

2010-06-20T18:29:00.000+08:00

Woodlands, 47 km. What a week. I get my bonus letter, which means there'll be more Cash in the bank. I do wish I've more, but Circumstances have changed. On 15 Jun, my Cat died. The same day, Cross pen with sentimental value "died". The next day, CD player died. The thing is, things can usually be replaced (except those with sentimental value). I wait and wait till Sunday comes and I Cycle. My heart isn't really in it, but I Concentrate on my form as I ride the Circuit. Then stop for lunch at the usual place. Courage. C'est la vie.

Same same but different

2010-06-13T18:06:00.001+08:00

Woodlands, 54 km. I've been cycling this same route for months. While the route is the same, things are different. i) The soundtrack in my head is different; Abba is playing; classic rock fan has turned popped :o ii) Traffic, while light, is also different. I used to be able to charge up the hill to one of Singapore's most haunted places; today, a truck comes downhill while a family on wheels (pa is on a bicycle, kid scoots about on a scooter) crosses the junction. I also have to pedal furiously ahead of a bendy-bus to get in the right lane of a 4-lane road. iii) A roadie overtakes me and I give chase. I pull into a bus bay and pull ahead; roadie charges on. As we head towards a collision, I throttle back to let him pass. iv) I have a new toy on my stem: a new camera. Actually, not all that new; an impulse buy of a display set that has a scratch on the case and fingerprints all over the LCD screen. iv) I make a detour into a waterfront. Formerly an industrial workplace, it is now a playground.

If things feel the same and you want change, look for what's different. If things are different and you want continuity, look for the same.

It's about time

2010-06-06T22:10:00.003+08:00

Woodlands, 50 km. Rubber time: I usually cycle in the morning but it pours so I adopt couch potato mode: sit on couch and eat potato chips. Time has come: as time passes, the urge to cycle gets stronger and I get ready to ride. Waste of time: the inner tube I patched, is leaking again. It’s not like it sprang a new hole while stationary and why is my fat tyre so puncture prone nowadays? Ample time: what’s the hurry, cyclists don’t have to ride through red lights. When the light turns green, it’s sprint training! Pressed for time: a driver overtakes me on the right then veers into my lane to turn left. Any closer and I would’ve been pressed against the car.

Time’s up: for the little snake whose belly is split wide open on the road. Keeping time: with a roadie, until Overtime, when my cardiovascular system feels like overload. Nick of time: a driver honks angrily. I look behind over my right shoulder. "What's up man?" I wonder. Then I look ahead and realise another cyclist has overtaken me on my left and is now in front of me. I spot him just in time. He must've done the same to the driver behind me. Dinner time: at a well-reviewed western foodstall in a coffeeshop. Actually, the steak wasn’t that great. Any time you feel like adding to this list of time, be my guest, please comment :)

Ride the waves

2010-05-29T21:24:00.080+08:00

May distance: 560

Kluang, Johor, Malaysia
Day 1, Vesak Day, 156 km. The last time the three of us had cycled together was in 2005, on the long ride straight up the middle of Peninsula Malaysia. Since then, the other two have cycled together the length of UK. Why did I get up before the crack of dawn to cycle with them today? Things are inverse; the small Asian dude has fat tyres, the big guys have thin road tyres. We stop by a little village to refuel. Like a tiny hamster, I have to keep eating. Big guys don't have to eat a lot. I hear that bears, unlike hamsters, can go without food for a long time :o The village is so small, there's only lontong to eat but the lack of variety is made up by the friendliness. Two villagers offer, unasked, directions to where we're going. Another takes a photo of us.

My front wheel springs a leak. It's not that I'm overweight! As the wheel sags, my spirit flags - the cumulative effect of sleep deficit and work excitement. Now, I have the added excitement of stopping every half hour to pump up my tyre. I cycle ahead; the longer I'm on the road, the more I'll have to pump my tyre. Once in a while, there are trees by the road. Where there are many trees, the air is discernably cooler. The weather blows hot and cold; the burning sun gives way to rain clouds. I ride at the edge of the clouds and soon I'm back in the sunlight. My pals, in the rear, stop and shelter from the lighting. At our destination, my room mate might be the sole American in Kluang, putting up at a hotel called the White House. But there's no shelter from the giggling girls who chatter and run along the corridor outside our room. The young and the restless ...

Day 2, Saturday, 149 km. Rolling on fat tyres takes far more physical energy than changing the tyres to slicks. But, the mental effort to change tyres exceeds the mental energy to ride on fat tyres. As I wonder on the oddness of it all, I notice the oddness of the things on the road. Sure, there's the usual roadkill: snakes, cats, birds. Then I see a chicken foot; it's a clean amputation. A few minutes later, I see another chicken foot. I don't stop to see if the chicken had two left feet, but it certainly left its feet behind. I also see two cushions and a pair of trousers.

As I cycle on, I so want to stop by a dentist and ask for novocain. For my butt. Would that numb my butt or would my legs go numb too? By now, the sun is burning and we stop almost every half hour to rehydrate. And, just like yesterday, the rains come in the afternoon. No need to rehydrate then, with water pouring from the sky and from below. Rain pours from above and rushes down the road. As cars pass, water roars from the right, wash over bicycle wheels, crash against the curb on the and meet the next surge of water from the right. As I ride the waves, I hope I won't sail over my handlebars.

Not that I have to worry for long, as the rain clouds don't seem to have an exit permit beyond Malaysia. They peter out near the border. Where a puncture awaits me. How do you fix a tyre when traffic is rushing past a metre away? A construction worker unchains the gate to a work site and lets me in. He barely speaks English but his kindness is eloquent enough. I can't find the source of the puncture but replace the inner tube anyway. I certainly don't want to cycle home in the dark. I make it home, whereupon the rear tyre deflates completely. I find a 1 cm wire embedded in the tyre.

When things go ride

2010-05-24T22:00:00.001+08:00

Woodlands, 50 km. Part of the sky is cloudy but the rest is sunny. I decide to ride and go for a nice lunch at a certain shop. I dress up in my cycling togs, grab my bicycle. A few pedal strokes later, it rains. Grey clouds stretch as far as I can see. It's a dirty drizzle, wet enough to wet the road so that dirty water from the road sprays up, with the rain not heavy enough to wash the road grime away. As today is a working day for most people, I mistakenly think the traffic will be light. A truck honks me, it pulls so close to me I pull into a bus lane to let death pass. A puddle lies ahead of me, a car joyfully plunges through it and drenches me with spray. As for lunch, that certain spot is closed! Ugh, what a ride. Until I become grateful I make it home alive, without a scratch. My gears shift flawlessly and I wasn't floored when I ride gingerly on wet, slick metal plates on the road where some road work is going on. Many things in a day go right, right? Even a crummy ride has its good side.

Deficit financing

2010-05-16T18:23:00.002+08:00

Gangsa, 51 km. I spent yesterday catching up on sleep. Sleep deficit that had built up due to work-related reasons. I want to sleep today, but somehow get up to ride. As I cycle past the nature reserve, the air is cool to the touch. With trees on either side of the road, shadows and a huge green lung mean there's less concrete to bake. Global warming is a form of deficit financing, going into debt using tomorrow's resources for today.

I see a sign-post and detour to check out a new trail. Without my asking for help, another cyclist in the area points the way in and tells me where to go. I end up on Gangsa, which I've not been to for years. I bounce along on my rigid bike and my semi-slick tyres slide about on the wet earth. Fortunately, I do not crash. Though it is noon, there are other bikers about, some resting, others going the other way. Somewhat dangerous, to have two-way traffic on what is sometimes single-track terrain. I ring my bell around blind corners and blind upslopes; sounds so incongruous in the jungle. I'll be back - with more water and with food next time. No calorie or other deficits for me ...

Bikes, bites and a break

2010-05-09T17:43:00.002+08:00

Bukit Timah, 43 km. While others are out cycling, I'm in bed catching up on sleep. As I head out, the sun is high but dark clouds loom ahead. So instead of heading as far north as one can go on this little island, I decide to drop by a new bike shop, which also sells things to eat ("bites"). I ogle at the gleaming carbon frames and other gleaming toys. There are bicycle jerseys too. I wonder why people wear white ones, like the one I wear today. It is tempting fate, it is tempting road grime and puddles to splatter all over it, to turn washed jerseys that smell nice but look unwashed. Yes, it rains today, but I have a break today. As I cycle, the rain falls ahead of me. By the time I get there, the road is wet but does not splash up. The rain has damped down the oppressive heat that beats down from the sky and wafts up from the ground. It is cool, it is nice. What a break!

Mentally-physically mentality

2010-05-01T22:59:00.025+08:00

Tuas, 111 km. I didn't ride last week. Just didn't feel like it, so I kept my cycling gear. Burnout?

Today, I cycled till there's no more road. When there's a goal in mind, that's a goal in sight. When my speed drops by 30%, I stop to rest a few minutes. Headwinds blast against me, the sun beats down on me, but weather forecast says it'll rain here. I think it's another wrong forecast. Little do I know, the clouds are waiting till it's dark and I'm tired. I see mist ahead. I hope against hope that it's not pouring rain, but it is. I cycle the other way and promptly get lost. Mostly by compass bearing and some dead reckoning, I pass a cross on a distinctive steeple silhouetted against the sky. I follow it as if it's the star of Bethlehem and soon enough, I'm on the road home.