Mingalaba, so very far

12-17 Jan, Myanmar, 641 km

Prologue
This ride is the most memorable in more ways than one:

• My 20th expedition
• 10th and final country I cycle in Asean
• Get in trouble not once, but twice. The marvellous people of Myanmar offer help even before I ask them for it
• Longest fully-loaded distance cycled on this trip: 203 km, on fat tyres
• More than a year in the making. I’d planned to go in end 2015; my friends requested I postpone it to 2016, which came and went. So I go solo instead.

Nightmare

Day 1, 12 Jan 56 km, Mandalay. A nightmare would be to ride into a horse at night. Or is it a cow? Dogs, pedestrians, cyclists, even some trucks, are on the road without lights. Did I say "road"? Sometimes I can't tell where the road ends and roadside begins. I emergency brake twice, once to avoid two people walking side by side with one of them pushing a bicycle).

It's supposed to be a simple recce. Things get complicated when motorcyclists go against traffic flow. In the dark, I must have taken a slip road instead of the main road and end up on backroads. "Mandalay?" I point and repeat at every junction to get back on track. 

How did I end up cycling at night? Partly because I was umable to arrange a van to the hotel. First I buy a bus ticket but the driver refuses to move until more people board. One passemger refuses to wait any longer. I leave too, get a refund and the bus crew carry my bike box to a taxi: a hatchback. Yay! 

Nightstop: Win Star Hotel. Not bicycle friendly: no bike allowed in room. But I have a bike box, so that's fine.

Blinded by the light
Day 2, 13 Jan 163 km, to Nyaung U. Last night's night ride was useful. Having gotten lost on backroads in the dark last night, I'd be confident to ride in the dark today, right? Wrong.

I end up riding at night not just because the road is long.
There are climbs too.
Note absence of reflective white line beside the road,

Last night, I never got blinded by lights from oncoming traffic as the roads I was on were wide enough (dual carriageway) or were narrow with little traffic (backroads). Tonight, on a narrow road, lights from oncoming traffic are so blinding, I can't see where I'm going.  I can’t see the roadside; there might be debris, holes, pedestrians and/or animals there. But traffic behind me wants to pass so I've to go near the edge.

I stop to eat sweets for dinner so I can keep going. A local comes to talk to me.

This is the first time in my life I quit a ride because I'm scared. I figure I'd 60 mins or 17 km more to go. It is dark, so I can't go fast. In any case, it’s too risky, too scary. All tragedy needs is split second, and there are countless split seconds in 60 minutes.

A loser's prize: sunset on the road

I blurt out "taxi". The local calls one. While waiting, he offers me chair, coffee and cigarette. I accept
the chair. He helps me dismantle my bike, even holding it up so the fork drop outs don’t touch the dirt. When the taxi comes, he helps me load it onboard. He isn't the only kind soul today.

Earlier today, at a petrol kiosk, I buy a lukewarm Coke then a cold bottle of water. The cashier waves it away, and waives payment for the water.

Nightstop: Royal Diamond Motel for three nights. It’s not cycling friendly: no bikes allowed in my room. At first, I'm told to put my bike outside the lobby. I ask a hotel official to let me put it indoors below the stairs. He smiles and agrees. 

Low battery, high mountain
Day 3, 14 Jan, 102 km. Old and New Bagan, Mount Popa. If my bicycle was in my room, I might have noticed it and fixed it sooner rather than in the morning when I went to my bike outside the room.

Old Bagan

When I push my bike into the morning light, I see a low battery indicator on my cyclometer. I replace the battery. The gadget resets. I lose my data and settings. After fiddling unsuccessfully, I decide to ride. Daylight is precious.

Old and New Bagan are fairly straightforward. The challenge is approaching Mount Popa, all 1,500m of it. The slopes around it wear out visitors before the final assault. I draft a man and kid on an e-bike. It is quiet and the rider friendly. He tells me the way to Popa.

Along part of the hot dusty road, some people, young and, male and female, squat in the shade. Why? As I climb past, some say hello. With perhaps 10 km to go, I turn back so as to leave ample daylight hours to return to base. When I speed downhill, I see and understand what's going on. Sometimes, passengers at rear of passing pickup trucks throw money at them. Paper money scatters over the road and people run to gather them, oblivious to a certain cyclist who might have rolled downhill in another sense.

I take time to rest. At a petrol kiosk, the attendant offers water, then pulls out a stool for me. The journey has one more surprise. A motorcyclist ahead stops, then U turns in my direction to go against the flow of traffic ie against me. We almost crash into each other.

At the hotel, a girl is alarmed when I attempt to use tissue paper to clean my drivetrain. She produces an old towel and asks me to use it instead.

Honourable surrender

Day 4, 15 Jan, 93 km, Pakokku. The best roads I've cycled on so far are here. Smooth asphalt is balm for the butt, as jolts from rough roads are a literal pain in tbe ass.

I marvel at the bridge over 4 km long across the Irrawaddy River.

On the way back to base, I pass where I bailed out on Fri the 13th. I couldn't have chosen a better place to quit, not that this crossed my mind when I stopped. A kind soul and a bamboo platform to keep the fork dropouts off the dirt when I removed my front wheel to fit into a taxi coming to my rescue. Looking at the route in daylight, it’s a honourable surrender. There are climbs, and the road twists and turns. This is not confirmation bias, it's confirmation. Physically and mentally tired, I’m likely to have become hopelessly lost.

Cyclist loves calories. All
this for less than USD1

Dogs are everywhere but they are a benign presence. Most don't even bark, much less chase hapless cyclists.

More chilling than dogs is wearing damp clothes in the 15-degree morning. I wash my clothes in a pail and soap from the hotel, then hang them in the sun on the hotel clothesline. Will tomorrow give me the Monday blues? I've so much on my mind, I forget to pay for dinner until I'm called back.

To help the hotel staff, I suggest I "check out" tonight instead of at 6 am tomorrow. The hotel staff are nice enough to pass me breakfast in advance.

Monday blues
Day 5, 16 Jan, to Mandalay, 203 km. The morning is cold. So cold, people bundle up in layers of clothing and light fires by the roadside to keep warm. Me, I’m in tropical cycling gear. The cold drives me to ride hard not just to keep warm but to cover distance. In the dark, I make the correct turns, thanks to my recce yesterday. I even avoid the unlighted barrier at a toll road (about 10 km out, past the petrol station uphill).

Sometimes, the road is straight like an arrow but not here

But then things go south (metaphorically and literally). I miss a turn. Possible reasons: the turn looks like a dirt road not a main road, and I’m happy to draft a truck for 18 km (10% of the supposed distance). A few km after I’m supposed to have passed a certain major junction, the road goes on and on, straight like an arrow. I play Status Quo in my head.

I stop at a shop in Myittha to refuel. The shopkeeper shows me Google map to show me where I am. I slap my head: the place I’m headed for, Tada U, has an identical twin. When I stop to check directions and people nod, I’m going to the wrong Tada U about 45 km in the south.

Rather than backtrack, I head for the road that takes me to Mandalay. The road is long. I stop to eat. Kids gather. I pull out my phone to confirm where I am, then keep riding. By now, it is dark. The road is wide, so I’m not blinded by the lights from oncoming traffic. When traffic overtakes me, I pedal faster to take advantage of their wide beams. At a petrol kiosk, I stop to check my bearings. There’s still a long way to go: perhaps another 1.5 hours. I ask for a taxi. To my dismay, the lady in charge says no taxi will come from Mandalay (is it that far?). But a motorbike taxi is available. Ok, I say. Motorbike lights the way, I’ll draft behind it. It’s quite a wait. The lady pulls out a chair for me, then another chair to serve as a table for bananas and “zee” (a fruit), and a bottle of cold water. She refuses to take payment. “A present,” she says.

Two guys walk over: Emmanuel and John Paul from World Vision. They assure me and keep me company till the motorbike taxi arrives. It has a side car! My bike is tied onto it and off we go. The night air is cold. After what feels like an hour, in which the locals get a little lost, we arrive at my hotel.

Morning mayhem

U Bein Bridge, world's longest teak wood bridge

Day 6, 17 Jan, Mandalay, 25 km. Let's go sightseeing during morning rush hour before departure. I figure the rule of the road is: give way to whoever isn't looking your way. Sometimes that happens as things move from multiple directions. This is, after all, a right hand drive society in a left hand drive place.

I find my way to U Bein Bridge, then gingerly ride back to the hotel. My butt is on its last legs. Saddle sore? Haw haw haw. The real deal is to ride till raw.

At the hotel, I want a quick bite and ask the way to a convenience store. Someone from the hotel gets me there on a motorbike and back. Just like that, all for me. I've not experienced such hospitality before.

I box up my bike and ask for a hatchback taxi. The hotel gets me a van to myself for the same price as a taxi: MMK12,000. At the airport, after x-ray, the security officer grabs a trolley and loads my bike onto it. I've never experienced this in other airports.  

Observations

• Traffic drives on the right hand side but road infrastructure is for left hand drive. So, bus doors may open onto traffic side (left) instead of curb side (right). To make a left turn at a X-junction, traffic cuts onto oncoming traffic twice.
• Road signs are lacking even for major junctions. Where there are signs, they are mostly in local language. Sometimes, there are milestones on major roads
• Tissue paper at dining tables is rough and stretches like crepe bandage. Often, there is free flow of tea, free.

Equipment failures

• Compass points west
• Cyclocomputer resets, most settings (including wheel size) lost. So distance readings are off
• Bottle nozzle breaks. It no longer squirts. That really sucks

Adventure, not adversity

Dec distance: 193 km

Woodlands, The last morning and last ride in the last month of 2016. This month’s mileage is decent. Today, I cover about 1/3 of the dreaded 175 km distance I’d be covering in Myanmar. But I shouldn’t dread it. I’ll frame this as a challenge, not a chore. Adventure, not adversity.

Planning vs worrying

Admiralty, 43 km. On the way: 175 km fully loaded on fat tyres in a foreign land. Longer, if I get lost. I know from experience that 160 km (a “century” of miles} is the upper limit of tolerance. 140 km or less is leisurely, and that’s what cyclotouring should be about. But 175 km? A painful ride.

I’d a boss who said I’m stoic. Perhaps stoic on the outside, but not on the inside. Eric Barker writes: “A key part of Stoicism is just asking yourself, ‘Can I do anything
about this?’ … Next time you're worrying, pause and ask yourself, ‘Do I have control
over this?’ If you do, stop worrying and get to work. If you don't have control, worrying won't make it better.”

So, what can I control?

• Ride time: I’ll need lights so I don’t have to win the race against the sun(set)
• Weight: improve power-to-weight ratio. It’s weight weenie time, eg, I fuss with lights and spares: high power yet low weight (especially “button” batteries, lighter than AA). I don’t know how “barren” Myanmar is, but I’ll pack light yet calorie dense food
• Route: don’t get lost! I pour over maps, mark out distances and plot routes. With the “terrain” feature on Google Maps (click the three horizontal lines at top left corner of Chrome browser), I drastically change my route.

Will the plan work? I don’t know. I worry it won’t. I ask myself: “Is there more I can do? I should’ve trained more. I add km, but time is running out and it’s been raining. Can’t do more? Stay home, pack and check equipment.”

As Eric writes, there’s no point cursing the rain. “You accept the rain. It's here. Denial and shoulds won't change anything... but that doesn't mean you can't grab an umbrella.”

North, south, east, west

Forget about Fraser's Hill, Cameron and Genting Highlands.
The most serious climbs are in the land of Gunong Kinabalu

21-26 Mar, Sabah, Malaysia, 517 km

Prologue
I've cycled in every Malaysian state, from Johor in the south to the East-West Highway in the north of West Malaysia), and Sarawak in East Malaysia. But I've never been to Sabah, much less cycled there. Until now.

Route
21 Mar: Kota Kinabalu to Tuaran vv, 75 km

My flight arrives around noon. Where is my hotel transport? A tour guide offers to call the hotel for me. A car* shows up. In my hotel booking, I'd specifically asked for a vehicle that can transport my 140 cm bicycle box. Can you fit a box that size into the boot of a car? Yes! If the car seats fold down. I assemble the bike and am off for an orientation ride and tour.

Rumah Terbalik

Rumah Terbalik, the "upside down" house, isn't really in Tuaran, but the outskirts. Photography
inside the house is prohibited. Most things are upside down: the floor is the ceiling and even the bed is upside down. Some details are off: fans to cool visitors aren't upside down, and typewriter paper hangs ue wrong way. Money on the floor sticks to the floor though.

I run out of daylight, no thanks to the late pickup from the airport. The sun sets around 1830. Roads within Kota Kinabalu are lit and wider than the main routes leading to towns outside it.

*If you're travelling by taxi, buy a coupon at the taxi kiosk in the airport. Ask for Avanza or Inova taxis; according to my sources, bike boxes fit into these models.

22 Mar: Kota Kinabalu to Kota Belud, 100 km

As Kota Belud is "only" 78 km away, I take a longer, scenic route to avoid the heavy metal mayhem that is morning rush hour. I swing by Universiti Sabah Malaysia, where some roads are signposted "10%" gradient. I guess that's why universities are called institutions of higher learning.

The road from Tuaran to Kota Belud is barren. Traffic is abundant and roars like an angry sea, but water and cooked food is hard to come by. I lunch on bananas from a roadside stall. For protein, there's a roach from the vendor's knife that crawled into my food, but I pass. When I see a shop named "Melody" it's music to my ears. It turns out to be in the outskirts of town. Town is so near, yet so far. My ears pop with the effort, or does that reflect the altitude?

To cope with the climbs, I max out my gears and wish I had more.  There's no place to sit in the shade, so I get off at one point and push to rest. If the gradient at  USM is undergraduate, then the climbs to Kota Belud are post graduate, and Laotian climbs are post doctoral fellows.

At one downhill, I ride my brakes down, slowing from 61 km/h to 52 km/h. I overtake a lorry, as I think that's safer than overheating my brakes.

It's hot, so hot in Sabah that I pass grass fires, some smoking when I pass by. When I check in, I find the heat has warmed up the contents of containers in my bag.

"Ki" + "Nabalu" = "Kinabalu", as in Gunung Kinabalu

23 Mar: Kota Belud to Nabalu vv, 99 km

Serious climbing starts about 20 km from Kota Belud. The route is barren. Happiness, or at least contentment, is when a food stall suddenly appears at the point of desperation. There's shade, music from the radio and friendly banter from the locals - not that I understand most of what they're saying.

The ride is a real grind. Traffic is sparse (but picks up after the junction to Tuaran), the climbs interminable. When my speed drops to around 4 km/h, I get off to walk, then climb back to ride as walking and pushing the bike sucks more.  I stop at a shop perched by the hillside. It has lukewarm "cold" drinks in an ice box; all the ice has melted. Stuff costs more up here. Trucks labour uphill, grinding gears and belching smoke as if panting.

There are some downhills but my heart sinks as I know I have to ride up on the way back. I think about turning back. After all, I don't have to do this. One thought stops me from stopping: if I turn back, it'll be temporary relief. How will I feel later, knowing I gave up? So I ride on, drenched in sweat. Where's the cool mountain air? I also break out my last resort: energy gel.

I'm also troubled by a knocking sound. Pedal? Cleat? At Nabalu, as I stop for lunch, I see that my sole is coming off. It's been flapping whenever I pedal below 6 km/h. This is the first time my cycling shoe sole has detached. Usually, they just disintegrate. They don't make them like they used to? I tie it with raffia and hope.

25 Mar: Kota Belud to Kota Kinabalu and its environs, 125 km

Traffic is relatively light. The sky, cloudy. Some moisture falls even, and it's not my sweat. Is this because it's Good Friday?

After Nabalu, I thought the last day of my ride woukd be a breeze. I forgot. There still are serious climbs, as a "10%" sign helpfully reminds. Someone has dropped small silver fish on the road. By now, most are dried fish that make interesting light brown fish imprints on the road. I was tempted to stop to photograph this accidental art, but the smell dissuaded me. As does the climb. If I stop amidst the toxic mess, I'd be hard pressed to roll uphill.

Some traffic passes me. A car overtakes and comes headlong towards me. Other drivers follow. It was close. I'd rather have traffic tail me; when they do so, they're my impromptu safety vehicles: they block traffic overtaking from behind and deter oncoming traffic. They then give me a wide berth when overtaking from behind. It nice not to be scattered over the road like fish.

After two hours of riding, I am hungry. So it's true: glycogen depletion kicks in at the two hour mark.

I take some Horlicks Malties: one pack if nine tablets has 56 kcal. I'm glad to roll into Kota Kinabalu. I drop my bag off, then ride about town, looking for bikeshops and the coast.

Traffic
Traffic can be heavy on the road R1 that links Kota Kinabalu to Tuaran. The road is dual carriageway,

At times, traffic is hazardous.

Black Death, a black sedan, hurtles towards me. The driver either doesn't see me, or doesn't care. He neither swerves not slows. So, even if the road appears empty, the situation may change in a moment, as traffic can appear suddenly.

There's nothing to draft. Everything, except the rare pedestrian, goes faster. Even petrol tankers and trucks go fast.

Leana Niemand writes about looking into her rear view mirror as she rides in Sabah. Eyes at the back of the head would help too; otherwise, keeping one's  ears open would have to do. A container truck thunders past me. The road shoulder is barely a foot wide. It's a close shave, the kind without shaving cream!
but mostly without a road shoulder. Drivers are generally patient. A blue behemoth lumbers behind me, then overtakes only when it's safe. At first I thought it's going slowly and I try to draft it when it passes, but the driver really was waiting for a safe time to pass, then it thunders out of sight.

Other hazards
Besides traffic, there is, at times, broken glass by the roadside. There are occasional dogs, but the ones I see are almost always no bark, no bite. The mutts between Kota Kinabalu and Kota Belud are mute. But there are some mean mutts, between Kota Belud and Nabulan. One dog crosses the road to chase me half-heartedly. Further on, more mutts menace me. It's not funny, being chased uphill.

People
Like in Peninsula Malaysia, people are helpful, such as with directions. They ask the usual questions: ”Where are you from, where are you going?"

Hotel
Aston Boutec, Kota Kinabalu. Before my trip, I'd asked three hotels for help with

my 140 cm bike box. One never replied me. Another suggested taxi, including models (Avanza, Inova). The third offered complimentary transfer, and this is the one I booked. The hotel mixed up my arrival time, but a tour guide at the airport called the hotel for me (two thumbs up!) and a car showed up. How does a big box go into the car? Into the boot, with seats folded down. I've never seen this before.

Aston Boutec is cycling friendly, except for the absence of a lift. Air con, WiFi, sink and stopper (good for laundry) all work. My room was big enough for my conveyance. Food and convenience stores are a stroll away, and the hotel is relatively easy to find even at night.

Tang Dynasty Lodge Kota Belud is a "big" hotel in a small town. The room I have, Deluxe King, can fit five bicycles and still leave room to walk. Rack rate: MYR89 per night. It's not that hard to fimd, as its a small town but it helps to know first that the hotel sign is "TDL". But the aircon goes "piak" in the night and it's not cool anymore. The repairman washes the filter, then says he'll be back to top up coolant. I never see him again (well, it past 6 pm). I ask for a room change. I get a smaller room, but hotel receptionist says I pay the same price. I'd pay less if I'd walked in, but I used booking.com. In my new room, I kill six mosquitoes (and three the next day). Changing room at night eats into my bedtime.

Long winded

1-5 Feb, Sri Lanka, 414 km

Prologue
This isn't a particularly long ride, but it was harder than I'd expected. While the coast is flat, I didn't figure the headwinds would be so strong. Or so long winded. They blow all day, perhaps 10 km/h. No need to calculate the vector; I head north, the wind blows south. Most of the time, I go below 20 km/h, at its worse, 14 km/h. The weather is hot but not humid; a good thing about the wind is, the wind blows sweat and heat away.

Headwinds aren't new to me; I've faced them in the Outback. So I've learned to grit my teeth and grind on. While I've cycled over 68,000 km, Sri Lanka brought new experiences. I've:

• been chased by dogs, but not a three-legged one.
• raced before, but not while touring
• gone hungry, but not had a liquid lunch of ginger beer
• wondered how to keep my bicycle safe while I sleep, but not used two bedrooms before.

Beach Road: I like it a lot, because there's a lot of it

Route
1 Feb fly there, nightstop Negombo Village Guesthouse
2 Feb Negombo to Kalpitiya, 129 km, nightstop Randam Hotel fka Windy Lanka
3 Feb Kalpitiya and its environs, 141 km
4 Feb Kalpitiya to Negombo, 144 km
5 Feb fly back

Riding
I do some off road, single track, double track, dirt roads and roads. I know I'm lost when the trail peters out. To get back on track, I track like a hunter, looking not for footprints but tyre tracks.

Night riding: to clock more miles, I do some riding at night. It's not really safe. Cows, dogs and pedestrians don't have blinking lights at night. And the glare of oncoming headlights is blinding. Once, the timing of the passing vehicle was such that I saw pedestrians walking abreast by the roadside: just enough time to see them but too little time to avoid collision if they were near enough. A near miss.

Over 400 km, I see three other cyclo tourists. One of them was solo like me. We wave to each other / exchange thumbs up.

Roads, traffic and other hazards

I like watch dogs ie dogs who sit there and watch

Traffic is heavy along the A3, which refers not to paper size but the road connecting Colombo to Negombo and much else. I ride along the road shoulder, because, as one guidebook put it, bus and truck drivers "consider cyclists a waste of valuable tarmac ... get out of the way quickly". You're "at risk not only from traffic coming from behind, but also from oncoming vehicles overtaking another vehicle". The good news is, traffic thins out north of Negombo.

I never really felt menaced; I've felt more menaced cycling in a carpark back home.

Roads are generally ok, though a guidebook mentions cycling is "eyes down", to negotiate potholes and chickens. There are poor road surfaces sometimes, but that's off road; in my experience, the main roads are ok.

I get frazzled on my last day of cycling, when I go to the beach at Negombo. It was harrowing as the road to the beach is narrow: it's jammed with traffic and a wedding procession. To win the race against the sun, I squeeze past whatever gap I see, including on the pavement, to get there and back to my hotel to box up my bike and wash up.

Dogs are are all over the place, usually sleeping by the roadside, sometimes trotting about, almost always in packs. Almost all the time, they ignore passersby, but I am chased twice, once by a three legged dog.

People
Locals are friendly (at least, I've not met any unfriendly ones). It's not just kids who're pleased to see a cyclist. Even adults go "hello", "hi", "good morning". One waiter in an eatery asks personal questions, not just "what is your name, where are you from" but also age and family status. And I got one question about how much my bicycle costs.

Once in a while, there are lycra-clad roadies.
Most of the time, locals are on steel, singlespeed bikes.

A worker sitting by a hut offers me food as I cycle past. A student going for night class chats with me as he cycles alongside. A guy with crutches rides his motorcycle alongside me, his sweepstake tickets riffling in the wind. He offers a hand. I realise later he wants to pull me along, when I see the student's father do just that.

Most of the time, I cycle below 20 km/h, because of headwinds and my load. One afternoon, two guys on a singlespeed bicycle pull alongside me. The passenger is sitting on the top tube. " Race", the  cyclist says, and he pulls away. The race is over in seconds, when one of them drops his phone onto the road. The cyclist catches up after he ditched his passenger then zooms off at 35 km/h. Instead of racing him, I draft him instead, to his disappointment.

Fried roots? 

Refueling aka food and beverage
Short eats are aplenty, in "hotels" (even small shops call themselves that).  Meals that fill are less available. Except in tourist areas, most people dine at home, so there's little demand for filling food. I eat what I bring: cereal bars.

One night I have rice and curry. Another time, I have what seems like fried roots. There are also scattered bakeries. Most of the time, it's short eats and provision shops.

At a "hotel" (eating place).
The ad above, EGB, is for ginger beer

Food stalls usually serve drinking water. If you're squeamish about hygiene, well ... No tongs or gloves are used when handling food - more likely, the food handler handles grubby money then food. Customers may eat with their hands; if you do, use the pitcher of water available for that purpose: don't drink from that!

An alternative to short eats is ginger beer; I quaff the 1 litre version. It's refreshing, calorie rich and not sickly sweet unlike some short eats.

Accommodation

Mosquitoes (Anopheles type, 1 cm long), are everywhere in the hotels. Mosquito nets are standard issue in the places I stayed.

In all my travels (over 68,000 km by bicycle, I've never encountered the desperate situation of being unable to find my hotel despite repeated attempts. Until this trip, at Kalpitiya. 

Randam Hotel. On the second night, I use the upstairs room
while my bicycle is in the ground floor, courtesy of housekeeper

It's getting dark. I ask some bystanders but they don't know. At a random hotel by the road called Randam Hotel, the staff say it's the hotel I'm looking for, though the name is different. Even the phone number is different. I have dinner instead and as I'm eating, a guy shows up and says he's from the hotel I'm looking for ie Windy Lanka. He leads me to ... Randam Hotel. Ok, whatever.

The room is dingy and kind of dirty. The lights flicker too, so I ask for a room change the next day. But different people give me different prices for the room. I end up paying a higher price after some bargaining. It's clean and bright but when I get up in the night, I have a feeling. Spooky. 

The next morning, I get up early to ride. It turns out I'm alone in the hotel, locked in. Exit via window, then the housekeeper comes, unlocks the door and makes nice Ceylon tea for me.

The other hotel I stay in, at Negombo, is hard to find as it's in a residential estate that twists and turns 3 km from the main road. The housekeeper there is fascinated by my bike packing. He lets me take a shower and serves me a drink as I wait for my night flight. 

Reflections

It's been said once you learn to ride a bicycle, you don't forget how to do it. That's procedural memory I guess. As for other details, that's declarative memory. What does 50 psi feel like without a tyre pressure gauge? How do you remove this rack?  I needed to refresh my memory. Which means, I haven't been touring enough.

I didn't expect this ride to be tough. It's flat, as expected but I didn't expect incessant headwinds that cut my speed by 30%, which means I work 30% harder. Of course, I should've realised that when a hotel is called Windy Lanka, that's what it means. But then, the hotel changed name too so it wasn't windy!? As if this ride isn't hard enough, there isn't much food to be had. My "lunch" comprises "short eats", ie, sweet snacks and became a race against the sun. I did enjoy the ginger beer though :)

When I came home from Indochina, bread became part of my diet, because of the magnificent French bread. And now, I take ginger with my tea.

General

Visas may be required, may be on arrival. See http://www.eta.gov.lk/
Weather varies, depending on which part of the island you're on and when. See http://www.lonelyplanet.com/sri-lanka/weather

Highs and lows

13-16 Feb, Cebu, Philippines, 301 km

Prologue
My bucket list includes a modest wish to cycle in all of ASEAN. The "easy", nearer countries are done. Two more to go: Philippines and Myanmar. Onward now, to the country of over 7,000 islands: Philippines, in a quick getaway.

Gearing up

View from Mt Busay

Day 1, 13 Feb, Cebu. This is my third trip to the Philippines, but first time I'm cycling there. When I get off the aircraft, 3 guys "help" me by pretty much just touching my bicycle box then ask me for tips. That took me by surprise.

Also surprising was when a motorcyclist shot out and almost side swiped me.

Most surprising of all was a climb up a 550m hill called Tops (Mt Busay). I'm glad I found it; the housekeeper at the bed and breakfast told me how to get there. I max out all my gears and I'm not even fully loaded. At one point, my speedometer shows 0 km/h, which means I'm going so slow, below 4 km/h, that the speed doesn't register. It's a wonder I didn't stall.

My ears pop and water bottle goes "psst" when I sip it.

Going downhill here is no fun. I ride my brakes but still go down at over 30 km/h; it is that steep.

Nightstop (for the whole trip): BugoyBikers B&B, run by a German who also runs a bicycle tour with three full time cyclists.

Herculean, sisyphean
Day 2, 14 Feb, Cebu.  We agreed breakfast at 7 and ride at 8. Past 7, the cook scurries in. "Sorry, sorry," she says and whips up breakfast. I wolf down eight slices of bread and two eggs. We needn't have hurried. Cook notices and asks me what I'm looking for. I point out that the guide is not here. She makes a series of calls.

Guide, G, shows up 45 minutes later. He didn't know he'll have to ride all day today. I choose the longest ride: over 70 km, though it is marked the most severe: "breathtaking", with gradients in some places at 19%, according to the guidebook.

We ride in the clouds. Downhill all the way, right? Wrong. It's a series of rolling hills. Down, then up. Interminable. Isn't this supposed to be the top? But up we still go, as slow as 3.6 km/h. My mind comes close to snapping. I tell myself: "Don't fret. Don't fight. Just sit back and pedal." So long as I pedal, the crest will come. One after another.

My sweat band gives up. Sweat drips into my eyes. Ouch.

Going uphill is tough. Going uphill on broken road is tougher; tyres lose traction going up and going down when braking.

As I head downhill, a jeepney comes up. Too close. I make a snap decision to ride into a gully filled with gravel. To brake here may break something. I roll out of the gully as another bus comes up. We pass with inches to spare. And there's cats and dogs crossing too.

The guide keeps going even after two hours of his. He stops only when I ask him to. We have just two short breaks and lunch. With two peaks at 700 and 890m, and total of 3,000m, he says.

The guides I met so far know their toys. "You have a strong bike."is it a Tank? I've only seen it online." "Nice saddle, a Brooks."

Copper mines, I'm told

G says today is he longest he's guided. "You survived back there. The Europeans I guided didn't make it. How old are you? How much do you ride?" I reply: "About 40 km per week." "You're the strongest ride I've guided. What's your secret?" "Drink Coca Cola."

Back in the city, G weaves and turns. I dodge traffic to keep up. Once, a pedestrian brushes against me.

As requested, G takes me to a bicycle shop, YKK. It is the biggest in town, and bigger than all but one shop in my country. It's even got Merlin and Lightspeed. The price tag is in six figures. Pesos.

Back in my room, I see the dirt from the aircon is still on the bed, though I did say the aircon was on the fritz. I raise the matter. The servicemen are other bike guides. They remove the entire unit to clean it and clear out the ants.

Sweet trip
Day 3, 15 Feb, Bohol. At around 4 am, the aircon shrieks like a banshee again. Dogs bark, roosters crow. I get out of bed at 0530 and prepare my own breakfast. The guide, D, is just 10 minutes late. But we needn't have hurried. The 0730 ferry is kaput. The next one is an hour later. So we do a fast and furious ride to Mactan and back. Sunday morning and the traffic is like a workday as we near 8 am. "People are going to church and market," says D.

Chocolate Hills, background, Green Grass, foreground

On the ferry, I lie down on the sundeck (at least, it looks like one) for a snooze. It's more peaceful here, no dogs, no roosters, no aircon.

Bohol has rolling hills. Not as bad as yesterday, but I'm already knackered.

There's a 600m climb, then up steep steps to see the marvels of nature: Chocolate Hills.

We head back the way we came to catch the penultimate boat, at 1845. We have a night ride back to "the office" (that's what the guides call the B&B.



Over the top
Day 4, 16 Feb Mount Busay , Cebu (again). I'm up at 0630 but cookie doesn't come at 7. So I help myself to breakfast then head out to cycle.

It's a manic Monday morning rush hour. Yesterday, a pedestrian bumped me. Today, a jeepney passenger hopped off and ran into me. Good thing I held steady. The bad city air and frenzy gets to me. Too many lungsful of PM2.5.

Enough. I head back to the suburbs. It's nice and quiet but I keep heading into dead ends.

Enough. Back to the mountain. Mt Busay.  'm relieved to reach the top. Not just because of the tedium. I've to check out of my room. It's scary on the way down the second time round. I reach a max speed of 52.6 km/h. That doesn't sound fast but this is with overtaking and oncoming traffic.

I do one more lap around the area and call it a day. At noon, checkout time, the owner reminds me to checkout. He gives me more time so I pack my bicycle in air-conditioned comfort.

Epilogue
It's been somewhat of a bad trip. It was arranged at short notice. A day's worth of photos ruined because of wrong camera setting. A lighter wallet, because of an air ticket booking error. The assistant supervisor goes out her way to escort me to a rival airline, works out a low fare and gets me a priority booking. I get a flight home the same day - which then gets delayed by 1.5 hours. But then, any ride you can walk away from is a good ride. Despite the mishaps on the road, off the road and in my room, there's not a scratch on me. And I do get my bicycle back notwithstanding the change in airline.

Down to the waterline

Mersing to Pekan

Dec distance: 916 km (includes Malaysia trip)

25 Dec - 2 Jan, Singapore to Pekan, Pahang, Malaysia, 810 km

Prologue
I wonder if I should count this trip as an "epic" one since I did most of this route in 2003, so it's not some uncharted territory for me, unlike my other trips. Still, it is 810 km long and so it counts for something.

Exit (U2)
Day 1, 25 Dec,  to Kota Tinggi, 68 km. As I head to the border, I see many cyclists, some of them in Santa hats. For this trip, its just the three of us, and both of them are half an hour late.

Bak kut teh (pork rib soup)

The causeway is jammed. It doesn't help that some cars have broken down. After I get my passport back from immigration, the exit barrier doesn't move. I knock on the thick (bullet proof?) glass. The officer presses a button. Nothing else happens. She comes out and asks me: "What did you do to the barrier?" I duck under it with my bicycle and cycle away.

It takes us half an hour to clear both immigration checkpoints.

We're supposed to lunch at Mawai but I cheekily suggest Kota Tinggi, and that's where we end up for the night, instead of Mersing.

I happily dine on pork rib soup, which I first sampled over 10 years ago, in 2003. Even the friendly drink stall owner is there. He tells me his family is driving up today for Christmas dinner.


Morning has broken (Cat Stevens)

Rolling over rolling hills

Day 2, to Mersing, 95 km. 6.03 am and we're rolling. Outside of town, with no street lights, it is dark.
My light cuts through the darkness. The beam is faint until it splatters on the road into a blinking blob.

In the dark, it's hard to see if the road is rising or falling. It's hard to see the side of the road, but for the little white line by the roadside. Sometimes, the line is a foot away from the roadside. At other times, it's the width of a car. When my knobby tires scrabble to bite the asphalt, I know I've veered off the road because the distance of the white line from the edge varies. And when traffic comes towards me, their lights blind. I'm glad when dawn breaks.

The road to Mersing, with its rolling hills, is tedious. This time, there is little roadkill (just the occasional tiny snake or bird) to distract, unlike in previous Bike n Blade charity rides (when I saw pythons, monitor lizards and cats. The charity organisers got so bored with the route, they switched to Cameron Highlands this year).

The incessant drizzle becomes heavier. It's as if an angry man is jabbing me all over. I'm glad when we get to the hotel for a warm shower.

Nightstop: Embassy Hotel

Against the wind (Bob Seger)
Day 3, 27 Dec, to Pekan, 169 km. We cycle 30 km along a pleasant coastal road before we breakfast. Near Kuala Rompin, D breaks two spokes and has them replaced at a bicycle shop for RM10 including labour. The spokes are cut to length and bent to fit. D takes a taxi while the two of us press on to Pekan, a town called "town".

The sun is out. Dry from rain, wet from sweat. Cycling north in the northeast monsoon is no joke: we're cycling against the wind. Out of the blue, I see a small sign that holds out big hope: petrol kiosk, 15 km ahead. When I finally get there I have ice cream and 100Plus.

There are signs of flooding. One house off the road has water up to its windows. Kids make use of the "swimming pool" at their doorstep. At another house, a lady sits by the road, looking forlornly at her waterlogged home.

Hotel fit for royalty

The road is long. I can moan, or suck it up. Or even enjoy it. Since there's no escape clause, I look forward to a break every hour or so, preferably in a scenic spot.

I come across a flooded road. I pedal to "paddle" across. My reward after that: vanilla Coke. The shopkeepers offer us free samples of their preserved fruits. Such kindness to strangers.

We dine at KFC. We've heard the chicken is better than back home. Indeed, the servings are meatier and juicier.

Nightstop: An Casa Royale.

Holiday (Nazareth)
Day 4-5, 28-29 Dec, non-cycling days. Pekan. We're supposed to ride these two days. They do. They cycle in the rain, along the swollen Pahang River and part of  the flooded town. It is so bad, even KFC is closed.

There are 11 states in Peninsula Malaysia and seven are flooded, with over 200,000 evacuees (in one report, a quarter million people).

I have a cycling holiday instead, ie, a holiday from cycling. On my holiday, I drink tea, read the newspapers on my dry and comfortable room, watch movies, snooze and run for an hour in the gym while watching running videos. Being the sole person who signed in at the gym today, the attendant lets me use it though I don't have running attire. I'm in cyclist mode, you see.

The water is wide (James Taylor)
Day 6, 30 Dec, around Pekan, 98 km. It's stopped raining after two days. We cycle, off the main road
into flooded country roads until the water ahead appears to be top tube height (based on the height of the water reaching up a distant road sign).

Taking a boat to visit a home

I film my escapade until it the cross current makes steering too hard. The bicycle is like a boat, with the rudder in front. The road is impassable to cars.

At a coffeeshop, there is no coffee. At the hotel, no newspapers: no deliveries due to flood.

D and A head back to the hotel. As it's barely raining, I ride towards Kuantan. The northbound road is closed. Half of the southbound becomes northbound. I u-turn when I see cars parked by the road side. Only heavy vehicles plough through the water. I head to Tanjong Selangor instead and see the raging sea.

We dine at the hotel. Whether it's lunch or dinner, we're usually the sole diners. Each time, we get complimentary fruits and today, complimentary fries. The chef even came out once to shake our hands.

Blowing in the wind (Bob Dylan)

One joy of cyclo-touring: rest in picturesque cafes

Day 7, 31 Dec, to Mersing, 160 km. I've never spent four nights in a row in the same hotel before. We're supposed to cycle from Pekan to Segamat, then Kluang, Kota Tinggi, Telok Sengat then back home. Instead, we retrace our route, reducing distance cycled. The difference is, what was headwinds are now tailwinds as we head south instead of north. I think about the big comfy room as I cycle the barren road to Rompin.

The sun burns. We apply re-sunblock. We cycle into dark clouds overhead. It pours. The rain roars onto the trees beside the road. At my speed of up to 30 km/h, the rain, with its own velocity, stings.

Don't start too late (Black Sabbath)
Day 8, to Kota Tinggi, 94 km. New Year's Day. Up from a warm bed into cold damp clothes and socks. On the road at 6.10 am. We ride for an hour on rolling hills before breakfast at Jemaluang. It's not that there's no breakfast at Mersing, a much bigger town than Jemaluang. The wanton noodles here are reputed to be great. The shop (open from 0630 to 1630) is full and we share a table with a chain smoking local. It's not a public holiday in Johor.

Simply Red

My thumb hurts. Now I know why gears involve "thumb shifters". This is also "index shifting", so I use the knuckle of my index finger.

Lunch at a roadside shop that has over 30 cars parked around it. Business at Kang Kee Bak Kut Teh is so good, staff don't come to your table to place an order. Our table is 61 and that might not be the biggest number. Servers are from places including Myanmar.

A heads for home after lunch as he's got to work tomorrow. I'm tempted to follow A but it's a long way home for me; an American century away.

D and I head for Kota Tinggi. We're in before 2 pm. This is the way cyclo-touring should be. Some hours of cycling, 100 or so km with or without rolling hills (today's route is the former), then some daylight hours at our destination to do laundry, check bicycle and whatever we please.

Torn and frayed (The Rolling Stones)
Day 9, to Singapore, 126 km. After waiting a few years, I finally get to see Johor Lama, the old capital of Johor. In the 1500s, it fell due to superpower rivalry involving Aceh and Portugal and a sea-borne invasion.

Johor Lama

It is cool, windy and quiet on the ruins of the fort.

By this time, my front deraileur cable has frayed, since I hardly shift with my left thumb. With my right thumb in pain and my left shifter useless, my 27-speed MTB is now, well, pretty much single-speed.

At Telok Sengat, we sit for a couple of hours, shooting the breeze. Then we split. I cycle for home solo. I miss a turn and end up where I don't want to be: breathing the miasma and riding the pitted roads of Pasir Gudang. Traffic is heavy, with heavy traffic. Trucks pass so close to me, the slipstream first pushes me away, then pulls me along.

Epilogue
How did I end up in Pasir Gudang? I wanted to go west but to go west, I should've turned east ... Not intuitive. I hesitated, and took what seemed to be the safe, logical option. Which turned out to be wrong. But I made it anyway. Which sums up 2014.

PS: The title of this blog post is a song by Dire Straits.

Mishaps and miracles

Cow to cyclist: "Please don't ride on my food.
Welcome to cycle on my poop,  I left lots for you".

2-7 Jul, Xiwuqi, Xilingol, Inner Mongolia, China, 240 km

Prologue
When my room mate W asks me if I race a lot, I told him I used to but have "retired" from it. I'm here because it is a tour for me. As the race instructions state, "there is cattle (sheep, cows, horses ...) in the grasslands and they occasionally run over our course signs. We count on your sense of adventure and good spirits". What I didn't know was, the adventure begins before my Genghis Khan MTB Adventure.

Surprises
Days 1-2: 2-3 Jul. SIN-PEK. Non-cycling day.
Surprise 1: my flight is delayed by 1 hour! This means I get three hours of sleep instead of four. Surprise 2: at PEK, there are no holes in my bicycle box. Surprise 3: no taxi driver wants me, because of my bicycle box. A guy shows up and offers to help, for a fee. At the Holiday Inn Express Minzuyuan , I get surprise 4: a free room upgrade. I lie down, half asleep and check out hours later. The hotel staff thinks it's impossible to use the subway. As I push my box along the streets on my makeshift contraption of a foldable trolley, a passerby thinks it is a table.

The "penguin" meat, middle.
Click photo to enlarge

At the charter bus pickup point, I see two guys carry their boxes on their shoulders. "How did you get here?" I ask. "Subway," they say. Surprise 5.

I settle down for a 10.5 hour bus ride, and catch up on sleep. Surprise 6: we don't stop for lunch; the bread, milk and "penguin sausage" we're given in the morning is lunch. I soon realise why there is no lunch; the place is barren. There is food for the buses though: petrol stations.

Surprise 7 awaits at the destination Xiwuqi: when I enter my room at Electricity Hotel, part of the door frame comes off with the security chain. My room mate W is inside. Surprise 8: the meal coupons I've paid for are useless at my hotel. The meals are served only at the race hotel. Without prompting, one of the organizer's staff offers a refund.

And so, for the rest of my stay, it's a race to find food and groceries.

Misadventure
Day 3: 4 Jul. Stage 1: 75 km.
Misadventure #1 My pump is kaput. I'd tested it at home but here, it fails under pressure. W lends me

his. His race prep includes leg shaving! He doesn't need to race for food; he drove from PEK and his car is a grocery store, with milk and whey powder for milk shake, bread, apples, electrolyte and carbohydrate powders. He doesn't eat out. His race strategy is to eat little and race light. He comments on my two big water bottles. He doesn't even intend to carry water for tomorow's  43 km race. A German, he works for Volkswagen. I've a food guzzling "engine".

Ceremonial start to the race

At the start point, I seem to be the only one with a rigid bicycle. Though I suppose anyone on a hardtail with a failed suspension would be on a rigid too.

Misadventure #2: a competitor with platform pedals catches my rear tyre valve as we both push our bicycles. He jerks his pedal free. As the race starts, I steer from one trail to another. #3 My wheel catches on a ridge and i crash. I get up to see a competitor's wheel stopped where my frame starts. Whew. "Ride slow," are his parting words.

I find my rear tyre losing traction. I look down, its not wobbling and seems ok. I think it is the loose sand. I ease off on my pedals to reduce the spin out. At the 17 km mark, a passing cyclist says I've a flat. I stop to feel the rear wheel. A slow leak from a broken valve from the freak accident. No wonder the traction loss and slow speed. I wonder whether to inflate it and ride on to the first checkpoint but decide against it. Too much effort, too little assurance it will hold.

As I fix my flat, the sweeper van and ambulance pull up. I ask if I'm last. When the last man overtakes me, I am last. A DNF cyclist lends me his pump, which works far better than mine. I cut my hand somehow. The drop of blood on my spoke glistens in the sun like dew on a spider web. I am unfortunate, but the poor DNF guy who pulled out so early in the race helps me. I also wonder if the guy on KUL-PEK who arrived without his bike got it back in time.

I'm just 17 km into the race. Time to make up for lost time. I overtake someone on slick tyres. As I close the distance from another cyclist, I tap my brake levers to indicate I'm coming. She veers towards the sound. Our shoulders bump but we don't fall. She gasps "ahh". As I pull away, I see she's wearing slippers.

Head for the hills! Into the horizon

To make haste, I hardly slow down to drink from my bottles. Instead, I quaff a bottle of energy drink and gulp a Snickers bar or two at each drinking station. At one, I overhear someone ask for sunblock. I offer her mine. She asks if I like the ride. I shake my head. I don't tell her about my puncture or crash. She looks at me and says, "To encourage you, it's all downhill from here. The worst is behind us. There's just one more hill."

The hill climb is 150m or more. Not high, but steep though the longest climb is 7.5 km. I clock what is probably my downhill personal best: 38.3 km/h.

I also have another near crash. Hurtling and bouncing in the gully, the wheel could hit the ridge. If I cycle on the ridge, the wheel might slip into the gully. Wherever I am, hang on for dear life.

I've overtaken the laggards, including those at the drink stations. Where is everyone? I see a red jersey in the distance. Red Star, my guiding light. I keep an eye on it as he trail winds it's way up and down. When I overtake Red Star, it's just me.

#4 I get lost when the yellow signs that mark the route disappear. I stop at the race hotel, get directions and sprint. Tired, I fail to see the finish line is against traffic flow. I waste more time before I find the way.

W is already back in the room. He has a bad crash, with abrasions. He rested half hour before finishing the race, yet is ahead of me. Like me, he crashed outside of the danger areas, which include "corrugated" trails downhill. This trail is technical in parts. Need to pick a line, for speed and safety.

I'm a kite, fly me
Day 4, 5 Jul. Stage 2, 64 km. The sky brightens at 4 am to what sounds like firecrackers. When the wind blows, my room door shakes. I'm awake.

After yesterday's pounding, I decide to buy a tyre. Bikeshop man goes to the back of the shop and digs out a good tyre for me. "The ones in front are no good," he says. A lady, presumably his wife, says, "You're racing, right?" It is a good tyre, at a good price. I also drop by a shopping mall. The mannequins outnumber the staff who outnumber customers. A couple of staff lie down to sleep.

W decides to rest too after yesterday's crash. As I head out, I hear something loose. Yikes! I tighten headset and front skewer.

At the start line. Dude with aero helmet

At the start line, I'm fifth row from the front, away from newbies and platform pedals that knock into tyre valves. When the race starts, hordes overtake me. Bewildered, I stop to check my tyre. Seems ok.  I keep it on the soft side for offroad. It's the only suspension I have. Though I suppose a hardtail with faulty fork is a rigid bike too.

The ride is uneventful. There are danger signs. When I see them, I sometimes think "you call this dangerous?" Sometimes, danger is not immediately obvious. The most dangerous for today is downhill on rutted ground and a hard right turn after that.

I dismount to shoot this photo. If every shot takes 30 seconds,
what a big time penalty! I shoot about a hundred times

There are some steep climbs. I don't get off; I'm here to cycle not push my bike.

The wind blows across the plain. I feel like a kite, with a cord drawing me to the finish line. But where is it? There is no arch im the distance to shoot for. A policeman points the way.

After that, it's about 20 km back to my hotel. Others stay at the finish line for the official welcome dinner and bonfire.

W stays in the room while I dine on hotpot. I eat enough for two meals. Tomorrow is the longest day.

I also repair my watch strap with Elastoplast; a watch shop doesn't carry that model and won't even try to fix it.

The longest day
Day 5, 5 Jul, Stage 3, 100 km. W leaves at 5 am - in his car. He's going home. I eat poorly, get ready to checkout and get ready to race.

At the start line, I meet A, who had used my sunblock in Stage 1. I tell her about my crash and slow

Muddy Waters. The "Waffen SS" car is behind

leak. "It's your duty to encourage me," she quips. I tighten her seatpost for her  and say "One hour warranty". When the race starts, I see an unzipped saddle bag with energy gel in it and yell at the rider.

Ah, uphill and against the wind. It's so strong, it lifts the drinking station tent.  I am sunbaked like the trail and wind dried. I imagine things: that cyclist with his back to me turns out to be a flat rock, the cyclist holding his bike turns out to be a fence post and support strut, the yellow directional arrow turns out to be yellow flowers.

I also see a jeep in olive green with the words "Waffen SS" and, later, a vehicle on the trail. The people don't get out of the way as I head downhill. One says "be careful", then I see deep ruts in the ground. It could've been a bad crash at that speed. The guys move off. I'm grateful they warned me. I wonder about the other riders.

Sometimes it's like cycling on talcum powder. I know, as I fell while going uphill. "You should've gotten off earlier," said one cyclist. Everyone else there was pushing. This is the only time I push.

I'm grateful for the big knobs on my front tyre. On the "talcum" downhill, I slip and slide but the knobs bite somehow. I wonder what it would be like on semi-slicks.

My shifters don't shift well. I adjust the barrel adjusters. There's also chain suck. No more shifting on demand. I have to shift early and ease off when the chain clanks.

There's a stretch off downhill so fast I use the sides of the furrows as berms when I corner.

The numbers on the km markers go bigger and bigger, past the 60, past the 90 km mark. The last few km make a last ditch effort to drop us. The rider in front of me gets off to push up these last climbs. I keep going.

Back in town, I sprint past the finish line at 44 km/h. Sporadic applause breaks out. It is done. I do my "victory lap" round the town square to warm down and feel this one last time. I made it. Months ago, I'd emailed the organiser to ask what happens if I'm injured or bicycle is damaged; how do I get back in time to catch the bus? The reply was, you have to finish, or else it would be hard to find you.

My watch is on my wrist, I'm on time

My watch, which fortunately has more bandage on it than me, has held up. And I'm on time to get back to the hotel, dismantle my bicycle, have a quick wash in a toilet and in time to catch the overnight bus back to PEK.

I talk to the volunteer on the bus, who tries to contact the bus driver who'd seemed interested to drive me from the bus drop off point to the airport. Well, he doesn't seem interested anymore. B overhears me. "You want to go to the airport? We're going to the airport, we've hired a van. There's room for you." As simple as that, problem solved. I'm at the airport at 4am, in time for a long wait. Somehow, I'm not hungry, not sleepy. I'm just glad I made it, through the race and the mad rush to the airport.

Epilogue
So many things happened on this trip. I'm literally shaken up, racing off road on a rigid bicycle. While training for the race, I was clocking below 20 km/h on the grass, "training" just once a week, usually 2-3 hours per ride. It would be a tall order to cycle 100 km at this pace and still cross the finish line in time to catch my bus, but I went to the race anyway.

At the end of the road: a dark horse who made it

A freak accident and slow leak, being last at one point, then being among the 43% who finish, and somehow, without knowing in advance how, not getting stranded 2x in PEK.  I could've been left stranded with the deadweight of a bicycle box, but for an overheard conversation. Just as I overheard people asking for help and helped, someone overheard and solved a big problem for me, just like that.

Highlights of the internal journey of this trip: to be kind, to see things as neutral (hills are hills), to remember the purpose (I'm here to ride, so ride up all them hills rather than be dismayed at how they stretch into the distance).