Monkey business

Feb distance: 294km.

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

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

Distance travelled

Woodlands, 51 km. For centuries, the fastest (and furthest) a person could travel was by horse. Then came sail, ocean-going ships, the steam engine and railroads. It was the humble bicycle that led to winged flight, thanks to the Wright Brothers. I still marvel how one can board a plane and, for the price of a decent bicycle and less than 24 hours later, be on the other side of the world - a journey that used to take months. They didn’t have jet lag then, but they’d scurvy.

As I cycle today, trying to catch the sun to recover from jetting across 17 time zones, I see flashing light on a traffic police motorbike, a car by the side of the road at a Y junction, a mangled road bike on the kerbside grass. No sign of the cyclist. A sheepish-looking man, presumably the driver, stands there. Presumably, the cyclist was going straight but the driver wanted to turn into the slip road. If only he’d driven like a sheep instead of a rampaging bull that sent a cyclist to hospital. Good thing pilots don’t usually fly like that.

From one extreme to another

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

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

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

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

Riding on empty

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

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

Italy vs England

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

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

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

Trade-offs

Jan distance: 266 km

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

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

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

And the click goes on

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

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

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

Give it a rest

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

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

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

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

Sprint training

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

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

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

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

Look for the bright spots

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

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

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