Dark clouds, bright outlook

Aug distance: 359 km

Changi, 55 km. I'm off to meet a friend who is collecting his new toy (a two-wheeler named what else but Wheeler) and his friends.

I go west past the airport and fly through the air effortlessly at over 30 km/h on my fat tyres. Fly, in a nice sort of way, ie behind, not in front of my handlebars. Dark clouds hover in the sky but it doesn't rain for a while. When it rains, it is a reluctant drizzle; so light, the white of my jersey doesn't get stained with the dirt from the road.

Speeding without incessant clicking from the crank is such joy. Instead of the sound of irritation, there is the joyful hum of fat tyres and the cheerful banter of the wind as it flutters past my ears.

There are dark clouds on the horizon, but it doesn't mean it'll always storm. And some preparation can be made in advance for rain.

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 ...

The right choice, the right line

Pasir Ris, 52 km. Let's see, ride with roadies today at 5 am, or hit the trails at 9 am? The latter sounds more fun, so I go for it. I end up being a sweeper, offering to look for some lost people then getting lost as the main group moves ahead.

I cycle down memory lane (Tampines trail), where when I last crashed and tore a strip of skin off my leg. The place looks so different now, with a lot more grass and some double black diamonds. I  choose to go offroad, I choose the right line but veer off as my front wheel on a rigid front fork catches onto some gremlin buried in the ground and I crash for auld lang syne. No damage to bicycle nor to skin, just crushed my my pride a little.

I eat humble pie and ask the organiser how to do a proper bunny hop. Guess I'll have to eat carrots too :p

By the numbers

Changi, 127 km. 4 hours of sleep. 5 am rendezvous with 30 cyclists, all roadies but one (me, with the fattest tyres and biggest saddle bag).  Pace picks up, heart races, drive trains whirr in the dark.

Half the cyclists break off in ones and twos as we head from east to west. The remaining half end up in hospital. Well, not as emergency cases but as visitors, as we're training for a charity ride. We see and hear first hand what we're raising funds for. At the dementia ward, our guide says: "If you think you've got problems, wait till you come here ...".

As for the squeaks that have been plaguing my bicycle, they're gone, all gone. Or perhaps I can't hear them over my tired panting.

Will over steel

Serangoon, 11km. Now I've done it. Or rather, overdone it. Dot the i's, cross the t's, tighten every bolt to stop every squeak and rattle ... too much torque and the nut (that would be me) tears off the bolt ...

So I'm off for help; some bikeshops are closed, but not the one I already visited yesterday. And yes, the man does have a spare bolt; if it was any other shop, would I have ended up with a bolt plus entire crankset? He dismantles the crankset, cleans the chainrings, checks the other bolts, adds some grease, puts it all back. $5.

Amazing, yes. More amazing is, how an short allen key and some arm twisting can shear off a steel bolt. Morals of the story: mind over matter (or is it mind your force). And know your bikeshops :p

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.

Hearing is believing

Jul distance: 354 km

Lim Chu Kang, 75 km
As I cycle through the concrete jungle, The Cure's "A Forest" plays in my head (or is it a song in my heart?). Concrete still surrounds me but the music I imagine makes me feel better until I'm near the coast.

My creaky crank behaves itself but just for while. A tiny creak returns. I stop to turn the crank bolt and that's like turning up the volume. For an hour I put up with the irritating, infernal, incessant noise. Time to head for the bikeshop but that's hours away.

Surely I can't fix it so I've to put up with noise? Haven't I tried enough? Well, what do I have to lose but a few minutes to try again, then say with grim satisfaction, "I knew it, waste of time"? So I stop, I fiddle and presto, the noise disappears. Well, almost but for sure, it's the bolts. I'm glad I didn't take it for granted that the problem is beyond me. And if it wasn't for the incessant noise driving me insane, I wouldn't have tried again.

After I get home, my cyclocomputer dies, wiping out, yet again, the total distance accumulated over time. I replace the battery. The day before, my solar-powered watch gave up too. Time to reset the watch. Some things can be reset but don't be deaf, listen ...

Creepy creak

Lim Chu Kang, 72 km. I've been plagued by creaks. Whether loud or soft, they grate and irritate. There are so many parts, some moving (like drivetrain components) and non-moving (like seatpost). First it was the headset (grease it or replace it if worn out), then the front wheel quick release (grit from mud?), then chain ring bolts (loose). And now, the crank arm bolts?

Each time something creaks, it's a wild goose (or is it wild creak) chase. The process of elimination begins, to isolate and fix the trouble spots. While on the move. While enjoying the sights.

I see a blue Conalgo and give chase. I sprint and crest a hill. I'm breathless and so it is the creak, it's gone silent.

Sometimes, a problem goes away, only to return later. Does it make sense to fix one thing at a time, or go for an overhaul? Scheduled maintenance, whether for bicycle or life, might make more sense, to prevent rather than to cure.

Sometimes this, sometimes that

Lim Chu Kang, 69 km. How nice it would be, if I could (a) step out my door and cycle on dirt or gravel; a single track that winds through green trees and hills, past a babbling brook and fields of yellow flowers beneath the clear blue sky. Instead, I (b) cycle on grey asphalt past beige or white boxes of apartments, past silent, sullen crowds and streams of metallic monsters called cars. It's hard work to get away from civilisation to wide open spaces.

But then, if the situation was (b), most days of the week I would be hard-pressed to get to work or groceries. And I work most days of the week instead of play.

Sometimes this is better than that. Can one have a cake and eat it? Yes, one residence (b) for work and another (a) for play, which is the life of a very select few. But then, I've met so many people who are happy with the little in their lot in life (dirt roads, wooden huts and wide smiles).

The start, the end or not yet?

Former Malaysian territory in Singapore, 76 km. After 79 years, the gate is shut, the train is gone and the station is quiet. It's the end. Or, it is the start to something else?

Some things are historical (Singapore was part of Malaya). Some things are illogical (after independence, board train in Singapore, clear Malaysian immigration in the south of Singapore then clear Singapore immigration in the north). Some things are inevitable. Some things, well, don't get hysterical.

Is what is to come better than what has come? The past has its ups and downs. The future, we plan and pray. When there's a setback in life, it's not the end. Not yet. One chapter ends, another begins. One book ends, pick up another. Keep reading :)