Sat-Sun 16-17 Oct 04:
To Batu Pahat, Johore, Malaysia, 319 km. My first solo round trip abroad. The first time I'm wearing contact lenses abroad. The first time I've logged a total of 15,000 km on my bike. And the first time that I (almost) have enough of cycling.
There's such a thing as too much of a good thing: cycling two American centuries (100 miles) in as many days. In Singapore, the longest distance (round island) is only 120 km. And one can eat and drink almost anywhere. Not so in huge Malaysia; I ride 160 km and I'm still in Johore. And as the fasting month has started, many eating places are closed.
Day 1 The trip starts badly enough, with a gridlock of buses just before the causeway. The thought of being crushed by buses crosses my mind. I see the roadkill of birds, chicken, cat and bat, and I almost join a smashed monkey on the road as I try to avoid it. The journey takes its toll; My speed drops from 30+ km/h to around 20, thanks to an incessant headwind. Also incessant is the thought: "why am I doing this". Riding solo takes mental strength to drown out such thoughts, besides physical strength.
I'm so tired of looking at the distance crawl by on my cyclo computer. I switch to average speed mode; my performance indicator now is not distance, but average speed. The computer tells me it is 23.3 km/h. The series of hills at the end of my century ride mocks me. At Batu Pahat, I feast on mee goreng, one prata and a cup of Milo. All for RM4. That's half the price in Singapore.
Day 2 I'm on the road before dawn. Asking for directions from two persons is a good decision that puts me on the right road. I mock the hills before me with an average speed of 23.8 km/h and follow the road home. Which takes me past two wrecked cars, one on either side of the road. What a smash it was. Nearer habitation, a dog ducks under a gate and runs after me. After Pontian, I cycle non-stop for three hours - the raging traffic around me fills me with adrenalin.
Dodging potholes with traffic whizzing past. One spill and that would've been the end of me. Who says road riding is tame compared to mountain biking? I must've gulped so much, my sore throat is gone. I brake at a junction. The rear wheel protests, my bike shudders and I hear a metallic sound. I pull over the side and note that my baggage has shifted on the seatpost rack. A grain of sand must've gotten into the brake block. And the sound is from my compass hitting the spokes. And I thought a spoke had broken. My waistpouch digs into my back. Back in Singapore, a jerk motorcyclist swerves into my path. Welcome home - as usual, I have to take evasive action in Singapore and not during the hundreds of km in Malaysia.
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