Relationships

Feb distance: 118 km

Sembawang, 31 km. I cycle to my friend's house for the annual new year visit, instead of taking the train. The change in transport mode is a break in tradition, to make time to ride. There are fewer people there this year compared to past years and I ponder about relationships.

Blood relations: we don't choose our parents. To be able to choose, we've to be around in the first place, right?
Work relations: generally, we don't choose our colleagues. We join a workplace and "inherit" the workers who are there. Sometimes, we can choose. For example, if we like a certain team and ask to transfer there. Or that team invites us to start employment there.
Marital relations: generally, we choose our spouse, except in arranged marriages. We don't quite choose our in-laws; they're part of the deal.
Friendships: this is where we have the most choice. Even as kids, we choose who to play with. This isn't as straightforward as it seems. We might want to choose certain friends, but those friends have to choose us too. And friendships, like all relationships, may drift apart. So, roadies tend to ride with roadies, ditto with foldies. Indeed, the prerequisite to join some groups is, you've got to have that type of bicycle first.

The above categories aren't mutually exclusive. Say, we join a group of strangers and make friends. One of them asks: "My firm is hiring. Would you like to apply?" and friendship becomes work relationship. A workplace romance blooms, which leads to a marital relationship. Or we could start with work relations and after resignation, remain friends / get married. So how does one start a blood relationship? Oh, when the relationship turns bloody, you say? LOL

Danger girl

Upper Thomson, 23 km. She’s cycling on the pavement along a busy road, one hand on handlebar, the other holding her mobile phone. She’s looking at the phone, its glow lights up her face. Otherwise, no lights. And no protection: no helmet on her head, no gloves on her hands, slippers on her feet.

“So dangerous”, I thought. When accidents happen, there’s sometimes no time to scream. And the “landing gear” tends to be head, hands, feet.

I stop at a red light. “Where are you going?” she yelled. Turns out she's lost, having cycled from Sengkang. Her friend is lost too. They agree where to meet and I lead her there to wait for him. When we stop, she asks why. “Red light,” I reply.

As we wait, we chat. Jessica wants to be an UAV pilot for the military. She seems to think cycling in Cambodia is more dangerous. Having cycled in all three places, I think the risk of accidents is higher at Orchard Road and East Coast Park.

Danger is relative.

Shameless

Seletar, 18 km. How shameless, to cycle for 18 km only and blog about it. Then I realise, it's not just about the distance. I started my ride today to clock mileage, then decide it's more about fun and as I have other things I want to do, I'll go do them.

It was fun, then I let a "door gift" get to me. At a traffic light, a car driver lets off passengers. A door opens. A second is all that it would've taken for the door edge to hit me. The passenger says "sorry", then argues: "The light is red. I should've looked, but you should look too." If the door opens right in front of my face or into my side, I wouldn't have known what hit me till, lady. You're sorry? Not as sorry as I'd have been.

Shameless.

Making the numbers

Pasir Ris: beauty of friendship

Dec distance: 388 km

Pasir Ris, Upper Thomson, Seletar, Ubin, Lim Chu Kang 317 km*. I was resigned to 2015 being the year of my lowest mileage ever since I started serious cycling 12 years ago, in 2003 (the year of my first expedition). But I didn't want this year, a tumultuous one, to end that way.

Mileage is within my sphere of influence, though this year's haze (supposedly the longest in local history) was not. So I resolved to ride the miles and make the numbers. But this wasn't going to be mindless performance driven. I want to have some fun too, and ride to nice places, not do mindless loops like a demented hamster or a trapped rodent in the rat race.

Reflections

As I ride, I have flash backs of good things in life, mostly abroad with friends and family. Not about work. Someday, work ends. But friends and family: in a life well lived, friends and family will be gathered around my deathbed. Worked till death, no.

Christmas is meant to be a merry occasion ("merry Christmas"). But not for someone I passed on the road. He passed away. He lies on the grass, with a "fatal accident" sign metres away from him. A small crowd gathers around him, all deathly silent. He's still, but probably still alive [afternote: when I passed the site again, I notice the fatal accident sign is dated Nov. No confirmation bias here!].

Ubin: blue skies and sunshine

I erred elsewhere though. Newbie errors. At Ubin, I wipe out twice: first, my wheels lose traction over roots; second, I make a tight turn on the trail and stall. Somehow, no falls at the black diamond trail (ok, I got off to walk at the neck breaking spots).

I'm happy overall. Ubin, on this weekday, has people including a skateboarder who ignored my warning and blundered into my path. The coffee shop is closed. For "lunch" I've an ice cream cone from a nice lady and a cereal bar.

2x2 matrix

If I take a pessimist's view, the km target will be within grasp, but slip away. So many km, so few days left - and worse, if the remaining days of the year are dreary and wet instead of bright and sunny. If I take an optimist's view, the remaining days might be bright, not grey.

Rain or shine, I want to make the numbers and have fun in the process. On New Year's Eve, I'm

If life's a bitch, heal at the beach

rained on twice. And twice, metal nearly hits me. The first is elbow distance away. The taxi driver who saw the near miss was astounded and shouted in my support. The second near miss comes from behind - the driver jammed brake in time. In both cases, I'd the right of way. I could've been dead right …

I reckon I could plot all rides on a 2x2 matrix (sun or rain, safe or unsafe). The "magic quadrant" (would be the top right box: bright and safe). This ride is both wet and unsafe. But it's successful. I exceed my target. This year has been horrible, but it isn't an all-time low mileage.

Tech note: there is a colourful film of oil in puddles which spray up onto rotors and brake pads. I guess this causes my new brake pads (just a few weeks old) to screech. The screech went away after I poured water on the pads and squeezed them against the rotor. The screech came back after I wipe the rotor dry …

Well, I sure am not going to get a third set of pads! I replace the new pads with the initial stock brake pads. No screech!

Bikeshop man had asked me to buy new pads, because once oil gets on the pads, they will screech. Fixes include using a blow torch to burn away the oil, or to use prescribed solvent that won't damage the pads or rotor. Thinking there should be less drastic solutions, I brushed the stock pads with detergent and soaked them for several nights. Let's see how they work on the road.

*Instead of writing a post for every ride, this is the first time I'm combining several days' ride (25-31 Dec) into one post.

PM, pm, pm

11-13 Sep, Johor, Malaysia, 197 km

Day 1: 11 Sep. Kong Kong, 63 km
Polling day. Another watershed election (just like in 2011, where percentage votes to the ruling party was the lowest ever). This year, all seats are contested for the first time since independence. What will be the vote share in the Prime Minister's constituency? As I leave the country after voting, will I return to a different kind of government and so a different kind of country?

Polling day is a public holiday over here, but near the border, it is rush hour traffic as we cross in the afternoon (post meridiem). Over here, I'm almost hit by a car passenger who opens her door and crosses the road without looking even once at traffic. and a motorbike wing mirror wings me at immigration.

My bicycle feels funny. Or at least, I feel that it feels funny. It's as if the rear tyre is flat. Phobia? Turns out to be my bag swaying, creating a flat tyre feel.

Night stop: Kong Kong Taison Seafood Resort

Day 2: 12 Sep Kota Tinggi, 70 km (approx). We're temporarily misplaced. Google Map says there's a road here? Then I get lost, separated from the group in mere moments amidst the foilage.

I call out. Blow my  whistle. Make ohone calls. No answer. I backtrack to the the tarred road and wait for a call. What a first...

More off-road. This is Matt Black's first fully-loaded off-road. Even my Little Red Tank hasn't experienced that. I wonder how the tourers, on their skinny three, handle so well: gravel, gullies, soft sand that decelerates tyres suddenly. I plunge downhill as my bike scrabbles downhill on the gravel at over 28 km/h.

At a fork in the road, we somehow split, some take the high road, others the low road. We meet and eat at Ulu Tiram. I've seen it on the map years ago. Now I know why we've not visited before: it's a dusty busy town.

Night stop: Mayres Hotel

Day 3: 13 Sep, Singapore, 64 km (approx). The air is bad, visibility is low. Sure, we can see the road, but not the blue sky. The clouds blend into the battleship grey of Made in Indonesia particulate matter. Around this time in the past few years, haze season would've ended. But the season seems to have shifted. Political mood has shifted too; landslide win for ruling party, with the "men in white" rolling back the "blue sky" party.

Private investigation, public interest

Upper Thomson, 39 km. Over two days (7-8 Sep), I use my bicycle to take photos (with a camera, not the bicycle haha). When facts are interpreted, they might be coloured by opinion not be based on facts. Since I'm the one most affected, it fell upon me to put things right as a matter of public interest: to go onsite, to take photos, stitch them together and ask tough questions, lest misfortune befall other members of the public.

Saddled with a problem

Aug distance: 648 km

Woodlands, 52 km. It's a pain in the butt to deal with a pain in the butt.

I ride with a different pair of shorts and find myself fiddling with the saddle, mm by mm. Then it hits me: when I cycle uphill, I feel better. Perhaps it's not the fore-aft saddle position that's the answer.

I raise the saddle. Have I found the sweet spot? In a few days' time, when I do a >300 km charity ride, I'll find out.

I also modify my sponsored helmet. The built-in visor dries out my contact lenses. And I need my sight to spot car drivers who veer across my lane to turn, and parents who let their kids play on the road then lose track of how many kids they have. They caution one kid that I'm coming. I jam my hydraulic brakes (my first emergency braking on this rig!), skid and see the dad reach out - not to steady me, but to grab his other kid.

Traffic. What a pain.

Sign city

Mandai, 42 km. This land has been called a "fine city". Fine for littering, for offences big and small. It's a sign city too. On a park connector, on what seems like secondary forest, there are signs again and again, warning of falling branches and to stay on track. On the remains of a road, which part of the track is for those on foot, and those on wheels?

As I surge up and down the slopes, I marvel at the fluid dynamics of my fork, the comfort and speed with which I ride on Matt Black. What a difference front suspension and hydraulic disc brakes make over a rigid bike and V-brakes.

But I guess cycling the hard way has made me a better rider, because I've had to use my limbs to absorb shock for years.

Island in the sun

Mar distance: 219 km

St John's Island, 64 km. Who would've thought that:

• A tiny island could be so pretty?
• This island, previously used to hold those with cholera and then political dissidents, is now a holiday camp?
• Another island nearby could become a country, and when its first prime minister, Lee Kuan Yew (LKY), died, the world's largest democracy, India, declares a day of mourning? And Australia and New Zealand pay homage to him in their parliament?
• While LKY was alive, British Prime Minister Tony Blair visited the former to learn how to govern.  A British Prime Minister learning from an ex-colony, five decades after independence?  

Afternoon delight

Seletar, 36 km. It's a cool afternoon, at 28 degrees instead of 33. There's a headwind, but I don't mind since I'm not going anywhere in particular.

The roads are mostly quiet, though, on the main roads, some vehicles came too close for comfort. Not 1.5 m away, more like 15 cm. Not spitting distance, but nose-blowing distance. Yucks.

At a traffic light, a door opens slightly, then shuts a split second later. Not that the passenger saw me. More like the driver said: "Not there yet." That door gift could've floored me. Imagine a hard edge against my face or knee cap.

I could've stewed over the near miss. but it's better to think about the otherwise delightful afternoon ride.

Dying and dead

Jurong, 69 km. Yesterday, I visit an (ex) colleague spending her last days in a hospice. Today, I go to a wake - another colleague's grandpa is dead. He would've been 108 if he'd lived till his next birthday. H

The dead guy lived through five governments (including the Japanese Occupation) and the Great Depression. The dying lady is half his aged and didn't even get to retire. She's so responsible; when she was on extended leave (before going to the hospice), she'd help her replacement by phone.

This is the first time I've cycled to a wake and "meet" anyone a century old. I get lost on the way home, but make it back, taking the long way home. The route is the same, but a large part has been widened, with new asphalt.

I ponder about life, about what I'm doing with mine, and how a few seconds of adjusting the air conditioner for my dying friend made such a difference to her.

Going downhill

There used to be Bottle Trees here (trees have gone downhill)

Sembawang, 40 km. In cycling, going downhill is exhilarating. In life, the phrase "going downhill" has negative connotations. As in, a guy who charges his camera battery but leaves it at home, thus ruining a group photo in a restaurant. Or a pedestrian who launches himself into my path such that I brake and swerve. All of which I see this afternoon.

My gear is going downhill too. My frame is 8.5 years (or 40,000 km) old. I was warned (today too!) to change it, lest there is catastrophic failure (just like my wheel). My crankset is nine years old. It is cranky.

My Brooks saddle is exactly three years (or over 12,700 km) old. And yes, it is a pain in the butt.

Courteously cemented

Woodlands, 51 km. Cycling on home ground takes getting used to. While cycling in Vietnam is seemingly crazy, where traffic goes on both sides of the road, the number of hair-raising moments (3 in 500 km) is disproportionately less than back home (1 in 50 km).

Today, bendy bus and a car pass so close to me, I could've flicked my sweat on them.

At a junction, a cement mixer truck slows. While I've the right of way, the truck's got the might of way. I wave thanks to the driver. After the driver lets me pass, he overtakes me. Not just an arm's length away, but an entire lane away. I wave another "thanks" to him. Thank you sir!

Run like crazy

Lorong Halus, 154 km. Having allowed myself to be talked out of an ultra marathon run, I decide to help others make their dreams come true. I sign up for bicycle patrol at Craze Ultra (or should that be ultra crazy?), where choice of distances include 101 km and 100 miles (160 km).

The job? An 11-hour shift to see that no runner is down and, if so, call for help. I also end up replacing stolen/blown away signage. And giving the thumbs up to runners as I cycle past, to shyly and silently cheer them on. Some smile. Others wave. Some do both. Some do none, they look ahead and keep going.

One-legged hero

On one of my patrols, I see a runner down. Cramps. In both legs. And in his gut. He doesn't even want to crawl into the shade. A few runners surround him. One gives him a towel (perhaps the only towel she has) to shield his face from the sun. Another phones for help. "I'll stay with him," I offer. The runners are relieved as the clock is ticking. A girl asks me where to get water. I empty one of my bottles into her bag and tell her where the nearest 7-Eleven is. Blade Runner and medics on wheels pass by, who adminster first aid to the collapsed runner.

I continue my patrols. At a junction where people have reportedly turned the wrong way, I sweep the area for several km, looking for lost runners, then resume patrol on the official route.

A girl passes a runner. She must've done about 60 km already."Well done," she says. "All the way," he replies. I pass an old man. His wispy white hair stands out from under his hat. I ask him if he needs anything. He wants a sip of water, so I squirt from my water bottle into his mouth. I look at his bib, he's signed up for the 100 mile run. He has over 100 km more to go. I later find out he's 70 years old.

At checkpoint 4, which I adopt as my refueling base, there's an aunty who volunteers because she is free. And a girl clocking community involvement hours - a school requirement. They prepare sandwiches, watermelon and liquid meals for runners. A thoughtful volunteer puts ice into a container, which we use to spray onto runners who want to wash their faces and/or cool down. When runners stop for food and drink, they reek of sweat and valour. None of the ladies at the checkpoint have proper meals for lunch, just biscuits and stuff. They decline my offer to buy dinner for them. Mosquitoes feast on them - the volunteers, not the biscuits and stuff.

One-armed hero

The sun sets. It is dark. Shadows are long. I peer into them as I cycle past, to see if any runners are lying down in pain. I see two runners standing, waiting for ambulance. One has bad blisters and a bad ankle. An ambulance stops to give treatment. I shine my torch to shed light. Another Good Samaritan runner comes by and whips out his far-brighter light. Conscious that the clock is ticking, I tell him I'm staying with Blister Man, but Mr Samaritan insists on staying put until Blister Man takes an ambulance ride.

Over 200 people have signed up for the ultra, including about 80 for 100 km and about 60 for 100 miles. While others have organised 100 km runs before, no one, as far as I know, has organised a 100 mile run on this little island that's about 40 km at its widest point.

I'm so inspired, I've done several marathons and, seeing ultra marathoners, I know they're a breed apart. They dress differently and behave differently. Some wear caps with flaps, and carry phones, light, food and water. Some grit, some grin and show a whole lot of heart. I'm touched some won't leave strangers behind.

Monkey business

Jan distance: 135 km (excludes Taiwan trip)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Road hazard

Dec distance: 1,070 (includes Taiwan trip, see Jan entry)

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

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

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

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

Don't fix it till it breaks

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

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

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

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

Road rage

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

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

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

The hand you're dealt with

Jun distance: 150 km

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

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

Play the hand you're dealt with.

Epochal change

May distance: 471

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

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