Reminiscing about running

52 km. Yesterday, I did my first race. At night. On foot. When it started, I thought: "My training was
tougher than this." And then it happened. Going uphill, I found myself leaning forward. At one point, crew were yelling: "There's a rope you can use to pull yourself up." There were people crowding to use the rope, so I went to the ropeless part, which was even steeper. I'm on all fours to scramble up, but there's no one in my way. Going downhill, I find myself leaning backwards.

Twice, something grabbed my toes, but I kept my balance and kept going.

My training, running solo at night in the jungle trails, paid off. I made good time.

I want to see where I was running yesterday.

So, I go back there today, on Matt Black, which is it's first off-road ride. Wow, I'm glad I didn't see the terrain during my run, just as far as my headlamp could shine - a pool of light a metre wide, three metres away.

It was a good run, and a good ride today, as I cycle among workers tearing down the tents, barriers and equipment set up for yesterday's race.

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).

Running into trouble

Pretty, but no taxis here

Punggol, 75 km. As a volunteer on bicycle patrol at Craze Ultramarathon, I look out for runners in trouble. Their distances range from 43 km to 160 km (100 miles). My patrol is a loop from checkpoints 4 to 5, then reverse. I bring along a water pistol but only one rider wants it to cool off. Most others appreciate a thumbs up; they wave, smile or return the gesture. Others thank me (or groan) when I tell them how far away is the next checkpoint; I don't say so when it's more than 5 km away.

There are two other cyclist on patrol at our route; we ride separately but sometimes meet at checkpoints. One of them has lost his bottle top after dousing heads with water to cool runners. I find it and return it to him.

Five hours into my nine hour shift, I run into trouble. My hub fails. I'm like a cartoon character now; I move my legs as much as I like, but I don't move an inch. Like when my wheel exploded last year, when I see what's happened, I know it is game over.

Crestfallen, I report my situation to the organizer then walk and walk my bicycle to where I can catch a taxi. The driver is reluctant when he sees my bicycle.

I place it tenderly in front of the rear seat, pad it with rags and wipe the floor mat before I disembark.

A bicycle that cannot be cycled is a dead weight that comes with a feeling of helplessness.
.

Tour de Timor: review

1. Regrets :'(
a. losses: my watch (time to go, analogue-digital face, world time and multiple alarms) and my sports towel. Never in 3 circumnavigations (twice by air, "once" by bike based on over 43,000 km cycled in total) have I lost so many things
b. lacerations: i got some, but my team leader got skinned from hip to knee ...
c. loos: oh, crap. Why are communal toilets exciting? Because you never know when you'll get a clean one.
How fast does a toilet queue move? As fast as the bowels ...

2. Relief :)
a. doggies there were, but no bark, no bite
b. dents: none to bicycle (but a big scratch). I got dented, but that'll heal
c. deaths: none (some riders broke bones though)

Tour de Timor: trouble, trauma and triumph

Aug distance: 723 km

Sat 21 - Sat 29 Aug 09
Timor Leste, 529 km.

Prologue
Some participants, like me, would've packed yet sleepless. Others would be packing and sleepless. This has been a rush job for all of us; the idea for the tour was mooted in May (by Nobel Laureat and Timor Leste President Ramos Horta, no less), to come to pass in Aug, for about 300 cyclists, 50 international volunteers and thousands of local volunteers. Never before have I had so little time to prepare for an expedition; I hear about it only in Jul. Flights, visas, climate, terrain, vacinations, routes, team formation, name, dynamics and training, all have to be settled fast ... Well, let's not call it training. There's little in Singapore to help us train for Timor and its long and steep mountain roads. Moreover, it's a half marathon run I've been training for. The 21 km run is a week before the Timor race!

Sneak peaks
Day 1: Sat 22 Aug, Dili, 9 km. As our flight passes over Timor Leste, we have sneak peaks at the peaks we'll be riding on. We wait in the VIP room to collect our bikes and baggage. I assemble my bicycle at the hotel (essentially, airconditioned cargo containers) and take it for a test ride. There is no TV in my "room" so I gaze at my bicycle instead, and realise that the decals on my bike spell out my team leader's family name and her initials. The cold of the airconditioning is a prelude of the cold in the mountains to come.

Night stop: Timor Lodge

Presidential address
Day 2: Sun 23 Aug, Dili, 39 km. I knock on my team mates' doors but as they still seem to be in dreamland, I cycle along the coast and do a bit of offroad before heading back to become a tour guide, showing the team cheap eating spots. At race registration, I'm asked about allergies. I say I'm allergic to pain ... I receive my race number: 101. MTB101, sounds like a freshman course in university. I improvise a vertical clothes line to dry my washing. The evening is special. Dinner and movie, with dinner speech by President Horta (a vision of "Dili, City of Peace". No war, no violence of any kind, not even domestic violence) and a movie Balibo (starring some of the race officials) set in 1975, when Indonesia did what it did to the fledging state. As if in sympathy with memories that do not fade, the video stalls. After some frantic jabbing of buttons, "rebooting" the player puts the show back on track. And tomorrow, it's Stage 1 of the race.

Night stop: Timor Lodge

Radio silence
Day 3: Mon 24 Aug, Stage 1: Dili to Bacau, 135 km. I have less than six hours of sleep. Each session is about 45 minutes long. Breakfast is hearty: bacon, sausage, toast and bananas. I collect my lunch too.

Flag off is in front of the Presidential Palace. Crowds line the road, which is closed to all traffic except for us cyclists. I start near the front to see what is like to cycle with the front runners. There are so many cyclists, it is like drafting a truck at over 40 km/h, which drops to over 30 km/h, until we hit an average 5% steepness over 10 km. I lunch at 10 am. There are two feedstops, serving bananas. There are slim pickings at roadside stalls - biscuits perhaps, no cooked food. I run out of calories and walk sometimes to cheer myself up. The road is interminable. usually, the radio station in my head plays rock or marching songs. For this trip, the effort drains the "batteries" in my head and I lapse into silence. I listen to my breathing and feel my cycling form.

Two things happen which I've never seen before: i) a newbie "bought-my-first-mountain-bike-a-month-ago" keeping up with seasoned riders and ii) my inner tube bursts with a hiss like an angry snake, because my rim tape shifted. I use a screwdriver to shift it back in place, stretch and wait for my team mates.

Team leader, who cycles with running shoes, shows up with a scorching pace. With biscuits and a Coke in my gut, I crank up again and the two of us finish Stage 1 in over eight hours; almost double the time taken by the champs.

In camp, I fix both rims with electrical tape (that means removing tyres and inner tubes from rims then putting them back), pry a stone out of a tyre wall (some cyclists have punctures, one rider had three) and patch the burst tube in the remaining daylight. I look after my bicycle so it looks after me but it's been a long day. I put a tyre the wrong way round and have to redo it. While inflating the tube, the tyre valve flies off. I have to change the inner tube all over again. By the time I'm done, long queues have formed for the communal showers cum toilets. By the time I'm done washing my cycling clothes, dinner is over. Fortunately, team leader saves some food for me. I brush my teeth beside a drain as I find the showers cum toilets damp, dingy and depressing. So much for Stage 1, the easiest among all five stages ...

Night stop: a tent. Communal living is noisy living. The noise stops only when a voice somewhere in the campsite yells in exasperation: "will you be quiet?!"

Double trouble
Day 4: Tue 25 Aug, Stage 2: to Loihuno, 60 km. The night gone by was just about the worst I've spent outside a hospital. At least, a hospital has a bed. To start the new day, I do my eye-poking ritual. A contact lens pops out. Pardon me, it's hard to do this in a tent and keep my fingers clean at the same time. Not that there's much time to do all this - the tent has to be taken down and loaded up the trucks by 7am.

Keeping yesterday's calorie deficit in mind, during breakfast, I pack two sandwiches for lunch. Today is Stage 2, with 6% elevation for 5 km after a 25 km ride. I stop at a cemetary to take a photo. Any excuse to pause. A passing cyclist calls out: "Found a spot to stop and die, have you?"

Further on, I see a sign: double black diamond. I know it means bad news. There's no turning back now. I plunge in. It is bad. Very bad. Chunky rocks, loose stones and downhill at 6%. I spend much time airborne on my rigid bike. When I'm in the air, there's no steering control and brakes don't work either. When I'm on the ground, I ride my brakes down at some parts. My semi-slick tyres lose traction. A few times, it's as if I'm going to wipe out, but my guardian angels work overtime. It's as if an invisible force keeps me on my bike and upright. At some points, I want to get off but hang on. I pass a cyclist who's gone down, clutching his arm as a policeman speaks urgently into a walkie-talkie. Further down, an ambulance rocks and rolls upslope.

In over 43,000 km of cycling, it's here that I'm most scared, though unscathed and unscarred. The fear factor comes from looking at the long downhill and all that's strewn below, then hurtling along knowing that I either come out without a scratch or a bloody mess. I reach the campsite at 1215, about 3 hours 45 mins after flag off. A team mate returns in an ambulance and is stitched up. The other two ride back; it's only when team leader removes her bandages that I see the raw, palm-sized abrasions and a puncture wound. I grimace, she doesn't. To save myself from blood loss, I decide to use a lighter shade of shades from the next day onwards. It's hard to see on the roads speckled with shadows of branches and leaves what is a shadow and what is a hole.

Camp amenities are rustic: a shower stall, neck high, with a broken bamboo door, with cool, free flow of water piped in via a bamboo pole.

Night stop: a tent. Around 11 pm, some people decide to play games and music. Team leader tells me that when life "hands you lemons, make lemonade". Here's a glass of lemonade: what's great about living in a tent? Answer: there's no need for room numbers or keys.

"Songkran"
Day 5: Wed 26 Aug, Stage 3: to Betano, 111 km. As we cycle uphill to eat, a kind passer-by yells out "breakfast is over". She's kidding, if only she could eat her words. A team mate valiantly starts out but pulls out, I next see her, one arm in a sling, the other taking photos.

The race director wasn't kidding when he said the route downhill is riddled with potholes. Only they weren't potholes - more like wok and cauldron-sized. Next is an incorrigibly corrugated road; as I bounce along a passing rider says: "your bike isn't built for this". When I reach mostly flat terrain, my rigid bike makes up for the lost time spent bouncing in the air and picks a line on the verge of the rough road. I come across a river crossing - a first in my life. I stop to see how it's done, shift gear while at a standstill and make it across with my feet dry ... Then I ride through a village where I emerge dripping wet from a "water festival" as well-meaning people splash and pour water on me from scoops to buckets. There goes my nicely-lubed drive train, and my feet go cold and clammy.

At the campsite, I haul together all my team mates' bags, using my bicycle as a wheel barrow. A bag slips and makes a 2 cm gash on my top tube. Ouch, that really, really hurts. How ironic, my little red Tank unscathed from a double black diamond yet it gets hurt like this. Team stuff settled, next comes my equipment: first, remove the cement-like gunk on my cleats from the river crossing; second, check my brakes. Third, wash myself and clothes when team mates are back. I notice my watchstrap is half-broken; I sew it and tape it up.

Night stop: a tent. I get up around 3 am and walk in the cool night air, under the starry sky. Stuff whatever's out there in the night, I gotta get outta here. Back in the tent, I "turn down the aircon" by lowering the tent flaps. Lemonade: why are the rides so long? Answer: because the nights are even longer.

Hard up, hard down
Day 6: Thu 27 Aug, Stage 4: to Maubisse, 72 km. It's a cold start, I'm up at the crack of dawn but the toilet queue has already formed. I take my place to use the 'gravity flush" porta-loo.

Today is Stage 4. "4' rhymes with "die" in Cantonese. We've been warned about this stage, like "very, very, very steep". Mathematically, it's about 10% gradient for about 4km. I've been looking forward to see how this compares to the mountains of Laos; this thought keeps me going. At a peak of 1,835m, this is higher than the highest Laotian road I've been on, but doesn't feel as hard.

From the peak, it's another double black diamond downhill. I overtake two cyclists while cornering. I should've been twice shy; I cut the second corner too fine and fear the rider behind me might crash into me. So I turn wide and wash out on sand with a bang and tear my new pair of shorts. I squirt water on my knee. I wonder why red paint is on my pedal and realise it's blood. I later count five holes in my arm warmer.

At the finish line, I must've appeared dazed. An official comes up to me and asks: "Are you ok? First aid is over there." But there is another hard hill to cycle up, to the campsite around a "pousada" (hotel). Some kind souls from Singapore have already set up camp for us. I manage to get what seems to be the last load of water for my team mates (I guess this is where my watch tells me "time to go" and I never see it again). After the big bang of a crash, I check my bicycle more carefully, patch an inner tube then patch myself up (the medic handed me stuff and told me to help myself). It's a bloody day, but my best performance to date: 187 out of about 260 riders.

Night stop: a tent. It is wet and cold - not that it's raining; it comes with camping at cloud level. At 2.40 am, someone remarks: "There's a queue for the toilet even at this time." Lemonade: how does the phrase "happy camper" come about? Answer: because of camp humour, like the lady who asks loudly "who nicked my knickers?". It is here that I lose my towel too; something of sentimental value. Which means I use a sweater in lieu of it henceforth.

Washed out
Day 7: Fri 28 Aug, Stage 5: to Dili, 103 km. As I walk down the stairs on my cleats, I slip. "And that's my only fall of the day," I say to the audience. As I cycle to the start point, my cyclometer pops off.

I snap it back on and ride. Along the route, I nod to the policemen whenever I see them. They've been there for hours and will remain there for hours, dotted along the entire route. The route is "washed out" in places, states the stage map. Now I know what that means - the tar has been washed away, leaving big rocks beneath which I bounce on. Having "washed out" myself yesterday, I corner slowly while other cyclists cut past me on corners. Hmm, I should've done that yesterday and save myself all that bloodshed. Along the way, I see red flags planted where road hazards are.

I use my cyclometer as a watch, toggling time and odometer functions with one hand. This is the last stage and I make a last ditch attempt to ride my heart out. I keep above my cruising speed but below lactate threshold. To save time, I barely eat nor rest, nor wet my contact lens that threatens to fly off. That's turning a blind eye. I meet two other cyclists from Singapore, K and L. We take draft each other for a while, then they cheer me on. Soon, I'm out of the hills. The headwinds I'd read about hit me full blast. A vehicle coming the other way avoids me. I blaze past a few other cyclists. The roads get busier nearer Dili. And soon, rider 101 crosses the finish line.

I eat part of my lunch, give part of it away (the gift gets half eaten; I'm hungry but not that hungry to reclaim it). The crowd gets smaller and smaller as the rest leave to eat and shower. Only a few of us are left until the last Singapore cyclist returns. There goes all the arrangements. Calorie-depleted, tired and hot after the check-in to and fro, I shower, eat my emergency rations in airconditioned comfort and miss the prize presentation ceremony. For dinner, I eat the equivalent of lunch and dinner. There's no medic present but another cyclist kindly passes me some bandages. I also attend to my bicycle, packing it with tender loving care after the pounding it suffered. Then I pack it all in ...

Night stop: Timor Lodge. On a real bed, with air-conditioning and temperature control. And quiet. What a treat!

Adeus
Day 8: Sat 29 Aug, Dili, non cycling day. Team mates seem to be asleep so I stick notes on their door about transport arrangements to the airport, then go walkabout. A couple of kids come up to me to "high five" though I'm off my bicycle. I visit the Resistance Museum, one of the best looking places in the land. Most of the exhibits are not in English so I fill in the blanks with what I'd read pre-trip. Somethings don't really need words anyway. I eat twice, first in an Indian restaurant with a photo of Xanana with the proprietor, then at a roadside shop. My Achilles heel is my gut / high metabolic rate as I do long rides and rue the need to eat like a spinning hamster. I guess others who love to eat would want to have my metabolism.

I get back in time to catch the transport to the airport. Some of the people I wanted to thank, have disappeared since last night. If you're reading this, "obrigado, adeus".

Epilogue
Some injuries are physiological and visible, eg multiple lacerations. Some injuries are physiological but invisible to the naked eye, eg soft tissue damage. Some injuries are psychological; perhaps only the symptoms are visible.

It was a mad rush, clearing work to go on leave, preparing for a trip to a place I've never been to before, packing for an expedition that involves camping (a first for me!). I don't regret coming, and don't regret running a half marathon a week before my longest off-road ride ever.

It was hard rolling and bouncing over rocks and incorrigibly corrugated roads on a rigid bike with semi-slick tyres and steep roads. What an experience, to have a president of a country flag off a race and have roads closed just for us, with security provided by the police and military under the UN. Riding east, south, west and north, over mountains, over river beds, in valleys, by the sea. With people lining the roads all over the country, watching, cheering, hoping.

It's a moving experience and I don't just mean moving on two wheels. The Timorese struggled for independence, paid for in bullets, bombs, blood and bodies since 1975. A remarkable resilient people, a nation before becoming a state. Viva Timor Leste!

© 2009 Kevin Lee. All rights reserved.

Pushed

Mar distance: 235 km

Lim Chu Kang, 73 km. I see the trees, high as three stories, lie on their sides, pushed over by the invisible wind. The base of their roots, each as wide as a small car, lies vertical. Elsewhere, I see a truck lie on its side, pushed over by invisible forces as it makes too tight a turn perhaps. I feel tired, but I push on. Today's ride (plus yesterday's) is about twice my weekly total. Yesterday, at a "time trial", I push myself so hard, sweat pours off my body and my glasses almost fall off. Age catches up with me. I trash a kid (late teens, I guess, see the look as his mother looks at me) but someone in his twenties walks away with the $1,000 prize. A bad carpenter blames his tools. I blame my clothes; I forgot my socks, wore the wrong jersey (too thick) and thought I didn't need a headband. It takes energy to lose heat.

Riding in "porridge"

Tampines, 35 km. The part of the trail named "monster mud madness" is part slush, part "porridge". This is historic; I've never seen conditions like this. Or seen an Olympian (Tinker Juarez) upclose. This is Singapore's longest mountain bike race: 100 km of "wheel torture". Somehow I (mostly) keep upright though the rear wheel slides when it loses traction or when it catches on a rock. Other parts of the trail are hard-packed, sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy. My team mate W falls on her face but is ok. I fall once and have a few other near-falls as I let competitors overtake me on single-track. What a day (which follows a sleepless night). It starts with me dropping a contact lens at home, losing a headband on the way to the race (left it on my bike on the car rack) and a back pocket tears such that stuff falls out. What went well: right tyre pressure and good lap times. The race ends with it being stopped because of thunderous rain. First I bake in the sun, then am chilled in the rain. But we have done enough laps to be considered finishers.
Photo courtesy of Freddy Foo

First time first

Bike Quest 08, 136 km. I'd hesitated to sign up for this all-night race organised by National University of Singapore's Faculty of Arts and Social Science. Starve self of sleep, then go to work the next day. I sign up anyway. As it turns out, all four team members had cycled from Singapore to Kuala Lumpur in 2005. Without prior arrangement, we wear the same jerseys tonight. Our route takes us from East Coast Park to Buangkok, Toa Payoh, Thomson and Bukit Timah. In this adventure race, big and small things count, like a plan and a pen. We think fast, cycle fast. Diversity means we know the different routes well. And are linguistic and numerically adept. There are cramps and raised voices, but we come in top scorers by a wide margin. #1 among 58 teams (half in competitive category). We divide up the spoils. Cash is liquid, but goods (one mountain bike frame as prize for a team of four?) would've to be sold and monetized. This is the first time I'm first in a race. Someone asks if I'm the oldest competitor. Probably.

Ride like the wind

Sep distance travelled: 908 km

Kampong Kaki Circuit, 68 km. "Is that it?" asks a guy who appears by my side. I'm clocking 47 km/h. "Yep", I say. "See you later," he says and cycles ahead. Not a good start as I head for my time trial start point. When it's time to go, I go. My chain slips a few times as I cycle uphill, though it was fine on the way to the start point. I guess the load is heavier on the actual route. A taxi blasts me three times though it's a three lane road with no other traffic. At Bukit Chandu, my mind starts to give way. More hills to go. I tune out and just keep riding on the edge between pacing myself and blowing my heart, lungs and legs out. At Mount Faber, I slip past a roadie whose heart rate monitor beeps furiously. He thanks me twice at the foot of the hill. I'm grateful too, that the sun is out today and I've clocked 63 min 57 sec. Woohoo!

Weather beaten

Kampong Kaki Circuit, 82 km. The dark clouds overhead liquefy and pour down just as I start my record breaking feat. Cars part the water on the road like bows of boats, leaving a wake behind. From the overhead bridge, a sheet of water falls as traffic ploughs it aside. My bicycle decelerates as it cuts through water. At Labrador, it is dark. My sunglasses fog up and it's hard to see as I descend. Transmission still sounds funny. I finish the circuit at 67 minutes and some seconds. Bleah. After I togged out in my sleekest bike wear to reduce drag too (and with homemade armwarmers for the first time).

Performance Bloody Terrible

Kampong Kaki Circuit, 66 km. I crawl out of my warm bed on a damp Sunday morning, thinking I'd achieve my personal best time (PBT) today. After all, I'm fresh from a 436 km hills ride a week ago and my body is in good shape. Traffic is light and with the cloudy sky, I divert energy from cooling to cycling. But my time is 67 minutes and some seconds; about three minutes better than with my fat tyres. Bleah. I should've oiled my transmission after the 436 km ride. During lunch, I talk to a cyclist who's worked in the same firm for a quarter century. He tells me to live one day at a time and don't think so much. His parting shot as I ride home: "Work hard."

When less is more and more is less

Kampong Kaki Circuit, 60 km. Having completed the circuit in sub-70 minutes last week, I want to shave 60 seconds off today. I reduce the weight of my bicycle by a few hundred grams and pump my fat tyres to the limit to have more speed. I pedal furiously, have a few close calls on the road, hurtle downhill at almost 53 km/h ... only to end up with about 60 more seconds added to last week's timing. Bleah.

No more kampong "virgin"

Kampong Kaki Circuit, 75 km. I've heard so much about the circuit (which goes up hills seven times), it's worth getting up early to try it. Some veterans suggest I try it timed. Though this is my "virgin" ride on the circuit, I bite the bait and shoot off after the lead rider. While I'm sleeping, he catches the draft of a vehicle and drops me as he beats a traffic light. As the light turns against me, I'm fortunately awake enough to stop before four lanes of traffic roar into life. A couple more roadies overtake me as I'm out of position and have to stop at another light - and because I haven't been riding hard for four months. My time is 70 minutes and some seconds. The timekeeper asks if I'd like my timing posted online with my photo. "Yeah, with a bag over my head," I say. Well, there'll be a next time. Next time, I'll lighten my mountain bike a bit to even the odds against them road bikes, and hopefully I won't be making wrong turns again either.
Today is the first time I read with a new pair of "continuous wear for six days" lenses.

The man who would be king

Mar distance: 410 km

To Mount Faber and Holland Village, 66 km. I'm nudged off the podium at the King of the Mountain (KOM) race. I'm fourth, the same as my race number. Still, I'm a pretender to the throne: KOMM (the last "m" being "mtb" since the top three are on road bikes.) Some guys who start later have their times messed up as they're slowed down by buses disgorging tourists. I'm ahead of a guy on a full carbon monocoque road bike including carbon aerobars - and an N95 mask. On the way home, I see a man lying chest down on the grass. He says he's been robbed and lost everything including passport and air ticket. I accompany him to a police station, where he stops crying and becomes more coherent. "God bless you", he says. Yeah, God bless me; with the peat fires at work, I need that. I stop by a bikeshop to look at bags. As today is race day, my wallet is already light.

Misadventure race

Sep distance: 269

To East Coast Park, Labrador Park, 75 km. I sign up for the NUS Rovers Cyclohunt. NUS Cycling Club Team 1 already has the full complement of four. There aren't enough people to form Team 2, until my friend agrees to join on the eve of the race. Most of the competitors seem to be newbies, which means there's hope of getting the top $300 prize. The clues seemed easy enough, but we spend 45 minutes in vain just on Checkpoint 1. A team member then pulls out there, recalled home because of a "domestic situation". That ends our hope of winning anything. We cycle to half the other checkpoints just for fun, stopping even for supper. I lead the way to the Labrador checkpoint, which the rest haven't been to. They (all roadies) "repay" me by cycling back to the finish line at up to 38 km/h, with me the only one on fat tyres. Thumbs up to the organisers for their imagination ("5 points for a live cockroach, 1 point for a dead one").

Glad, sad and mad

To Kent Ridge, 51 km. Today is the first official race at Kent Ridge mountain bike trail, which deserves its reputation as the toughest in Singapore. I volunteer as a road marshall; as some riders pass me, they signal how tough it is; one even does a throat-slitting motion. I'm glad to of some use to them, directing mostly friendly pedestrians out of harm's way, including someone on a wheelchair and another old lady who had to be helped uphill (which makes walking single file difficult). Just standing as a road marshall was strain enough on my back. But I try the route when the race is over, just to see how my back takes it. One lap leaves me drenched in sweat but without a scratch; not even where I last fell. I'm sad I'm not in a position to race. I'm mad as I'd thought other cyclists would look out for their own kind, but the greatest alarm is caused by three non-racing bikers who weave uphill and, at one point, stop to run alongside a competitor.

Fortune doesn't favour the bold

To Yew Tee, 112 km. Whoever said fortune favours the bold is wrong. Fortune favours the fortunate. At the Yew Tee Challenge adventure race, I draw number 24 for the route. My team mate has a puncture. Our cup to scoop water at one of the "tests" breaks. It rains so hard, I can't write down answers to clues. And it's a nasty route, with clues that leave us clueless. For almost an hour, several teams go round in circles, mislead by what "beside" means. And I learn that leadership is a mix of being firm and flexible. To firmly stay the course when I'm right. To listen when I'm wrong. Problem is, when is who right? I also learn that when people mess up, they sometimes make things right. And sometimes, things right themselves. Like when we're recalled to base in the downpour while some teams aren't. But at the base, another team helps us. Ultimately, the race is not to the swiftest, as I see teams with medal-winners go away losers. My team didn't win either, but we finish the race, with some honour left.

Three firsts and half-past six

To Tampines Mountain Bike Trail, 64 km. For the first time in my life: I cycle in SACA's Men's Masters. I keep upright in an offroad race (I filled my quota for falling yesterday). I win a medal. Thanks to CC and N for the winning advice. I would've been #6, but for half a bike length. #6 hears me coming; yesterday's crash had disabled my stealth mode. Though I leap ahead, he has too much of a headstart. Still, I shouldn't have won anything. My hand hurts from yesterday's fall, the jolts on the road as I cycle to the race venue remind me so (I wish I'd a support vehicle like my competitors). My bent rear D is a drag. And I didn't sleep well because of pain. When the race starts, it seems everyone surges ahead of me. I feel hungry. Somehow, I overtake 3-4 riders without falling. Some people congratulate me after the race. I struggle to open a bottle of water because of the pain in my hand. Chasing after a medal is like chasing a girl. It takes serious effort, time, money and pain. The difference is, the medal you keep. The girl, you have to work at keeping.

Medic not medal

Mar distance: 527 km

To Bukit Timah Hill, 46 km. Any hope of getting a medal was over after the first few seconds of the race. I'd a good spot at the start line but most of the pack of 16 Weekend Warriors just surge ahead. As I pass the commentator, his remarks about arm warmers gets me hot and bothered as he says naught about my rigid fork. I see someone ahead, lose my nerve and fall, hitting my chin on the handlebar. And after riding over 27,000 km since 2002, I learn something today - the power of the mind. I tell myself I'll go up those slopes and I do, as my rear wheel spins over wet gnarled roots. On the last downhill near the finish line, I relax and something hits me. The ground. The brake lever gets stuck in my shoe. After waving my limbs in the air like a helpless tortoise, I unstrap my shoe and try to cycle, then realise my front wheel is the wrong way round. I cross the finish line with a dangling number plate, and twisted saddle, rear derailleur and ankle. I miss a medal by 4-5 minutes; the guy ahead of me is the last to get a medal. This is my third off-road race, my sixth solo race and the worst race ever. But at least my wounds are treatable by the medic and I get home under my own steam. (Title of this entry inspired by RebelXH)
Photo courtesy of Deemax

Winning number

To Mount Faber, 57 km. It's the first time I've body marking. The number: 103, which sounds like "surely third" in Cantonese. If I'm superstitious, it means I'm condemned to being third each time there's a podium finish, like in past races. Regardless whether it's an individual or team event or how many people take part. But superstitious I'm not. Today, the curse is broken. At Togopart's "King of the Mountain" time trial, I'm joint second at 4 min 10 sec, 7 sec behind the champ, a student (and 40 sec ahead of third place). It looks like I'm the oldest on the podium. And a crowded podium it was. The "queen" of the mountain is the sole roadie, who is so fast that the stopwatches don't stop in time. I could've done better. I got my gearing wrong. Lost air warning some pedestrians. I could've pushed myself harder at the end. But I could've been stuck behind a tour bus disgorging tourists. Or be third instead of second. The first time I did this (on a shorter route, on 16 Oct 05), I lost second place by one second. So, this is what it's like to be walking on air. This win is dedicated to my "coach" and friend, N. As a reward for the good performance, I see bikeshop man who saws off a few grams from my steerer tube.

Photo courtesy of Sehsuan