Malaysia: long ride, long story

Wed 17 Dec - 3 Jan 04
To Malaysia and South Thailand, 1,043 km.

I've waited a long time (all my life) for such a long ride. The journey is one of long roads, stretching as far as the eye can see, past oil palms, lush forests, vast plains and the occasional flooded residences. A journey of over 1,000 km, with zero scratches, one puncture, and many fond memories.

Plan

It starts with an idea - go on a long ride. Bikerboey thinks about flying somewhere eg Down Under. I suggest cycling up north to Malaysia. She thinks about it and on 5 Sep she emails to suggest a ride through Malaysia to Betong, Thailand (about 100 km north of the Malaysian border).

We seriously start planning for the ride in early Oct. It takes me about two months, using available pockets of time on weekdays and on weekends, to get myself, my bicycle and my things ready for the longest ride of my life. The longest ride that I've ever done before this is a 278 km overnight trip to Kluang.

I contact some cyclists who're more experienced than me: Andy Dinesh, Joe Adnan and Wendy Chan for information on safe riding in a monsoon, and possible psychological and physiological damage on the road.

I research into accommodation available in Malaysia (that's the task Bikerboey assigned me: to figure out where to stay while she figures out where to ride). I also read up on the hamstring injury that has been plaguing me so badly that I stop riding for a couple of weeks just in case.
There's stuff to buy (like upgrade my drive train and wheelset), test and pack eg spare saddle, bikeshorts, cleats - anything that may be hard to come by on the road.

I wonder if there's anything I've missed out. On the last Sunday before the ride, I make my occasional visit to church and ask a pastor to pray for me. My greatest fears: foul weather, accident, mechanical failure and illness. We have no support vehicle except for the last 221 km from Jeli onwards.
Having covered the natural and supernatural bases, it's time to go. Did the appeal to the supernatural work? Go figure: if we'd started one week earlier, we'd have met with floods. If we'd started one week later, we might have been caught in the aftermath of some unrest and bloodshed in South Thailand.
The actual route we take deviates somewhat from Bikerboey's original plan.

I spend another four non-cycling days in Thailand, and take an overnight bus (two days) from Hatyai back to Singapore, then cycle the 20 km from the border back home.

Price
Total cost = S$717, including meals, accommodation, shopping and insurance.
The Malaysian segment cost about $250 for 10 days, with almost equal amounts spent on food and lodging. The Malaysian segment costs about half the Thai segment.
I spend an additional S$560 to upgrade the drive train of my bicycle.

People (and their magnificent machines)
Bikerboey and I are the only ones who go the full 1,000 km. LYC cycles part of the route and goes by public transport for the rest. The others join us later at Jeli; they take a van from Singapore with a little cycling detour at Fraser's Hill in Malaysia.

Bikerboey. Organiser and inspirer. She buys a Marin Pine Mountain for this ride, and is equipped with pannier and handlebar bags. She even packs books and a single-lens reflex camera for the trip.
Me. Self-professed bike mechanic and toolman. I also break wind (with my 9-year old bike, not my butt) for much of the ride. I've the oldest bicycle and am about the oldest chap on this ride.
LYC. Plucky newbie who's done only a few 100 km rides. He rides a new Scott Montana. He packs really light, with a haversack and a saddlebag, yet manages to pack a single-lens reflex camera too.
W and C. This couple share the same names as two cartoon characters. They are friendly and ride a fast pace: she on a Trek 800 while he's on a venerable Giant.
K. He rides a GT Lighting.
GKT. He rides a Corratec.

Pleasure (and pain)
I love Malaysian roads on the east coast, which stretch into the horizon with just the occasional traffic light or vehicle in sight.

I marvel at the Malaysian warmth. Passers-by and drivers wave their greetings, give us the thumbs-up and say "hello". Some kids run along the roadside with us. Adults and kids alike stop to chat as we rest. Motorists make way for us or give us a wide berth as they overtake us; one even pulls aside to let us pass. These things happen in every state we pass through; if only they happen routinely in Singapore.

While Malaysian are gentle, the roads are rough, wearing out my tyres at a noticeable rate and reducing speed by 1-2 km/h. Following Bikerboey's tactic, I start cycling on the single white line by the roadside.

I love drafting behind motorbikes; when I do so, I break into a smile. Having been chased by dogs, I start behaving like one; when a motorbike passes close enough, I chase after it. It's fun to draft and go uphill at close to 40 km/h. Sometimes, two types of smoke trail a motorbike: the toxic exhaust and the intoxicating smell of the biker smoking a clove cigarette. There are risks, of course, and I don't mean passive smoking. Before darting behind passing motorbike, look behind it; there might be a 10-wheeled truck bearing down on you!

Above the clouds
Day 1: Wed 17 Dec, Singapore - Kota Tinggi (Johore), 64 km
In Singapore, the sky is grey, cold and gloomy. It rains, as befits the first day of my ride during monsoon season. We delay the start of the ride by an hour. Above the clouds, the sun shines brightly enough to give you sunburn. Sure enough, the rain stops and the road dries. I ride my way to Woodlands where I meet Bikerboey and LYC. In Johore, I rein myself back, pacing myself. No punctures, no pain no pressure! Bikerboey, who finishes packing at 3 am, is irrepressible and barely able to contain her excitement.
Nightstop: Hotel Sri Kota

The roller coaster
Day 2: Thu 18 Dec, Kota Tinggi - Mersing (Johore), 96 km
The road to Mersing, like life, is full of ups and downs. So what do you do? Believe in the journey. Be on the right road. Set your milestones. And so we go on, cycling about 75 minutes before resting. Sometimes, we stop earlier, when the road ahead looks barren and an enticing roadside stall appears. The weather is obliging; other than a passing shower, there is a refreshing drizzle. I reward myself every 15 minutes with a sip of water. That simple, repetitive act of reaching down to grab a waterbottle (I have two on the bike frame), bring it to my mouth and squeeze, is to give me a painful wrist in the days to come.
Nightstop: Mersing Inn

It's the journey, not the destination
Day 3: Fri 19 Dec, Mersing - Pekan (Pahang), 161 km
Why do we spend more time awake on the road than at our destination at the end of each day? We ride, pelted by the rain, burnt by the sun and the wind. Headwind cuts our speed down to 22 km/h instead of the usual 28 km/h. The bag on LYC's back and his bike setup starts to take its toll. The worse is yet to come. We reach Nenasi, our intended destination, at 4 pm. We see a hotel tantalisingly close by. Should we stop or go on to Pekan? LYC and Bikerboey decide to go on and I defer instead of differ. After all, Pekan is but a mere 40+ km away, a mere two-hour ride. But appearances are deceiving.

What we didn't know was, there is a monster headwind that cuts our speed down to 17 km/h as we go uphill. I take the lead and try to shelter Bikerboey, while LYC pedals valiantly on further behind. Bikerboey has a headache. We stop by the roadside and I massage her neck. "Kill me", she says. Is the headache - or my massage - that bad? :-) The worst is yet to be.

8 pm: we reach Pekan. After dinner, we look for a place to rest. A passing car slows down and a passenger winds down her window. She helpfully tells us the way to the nearest hotel. But there is no room at the inn - a dingy, dimly lit place. The inn has communal toilets and soiled mattresses hanging on the peeling bannisters. I've seen more hospitable-looking drains. Two other possibilities turn out naught.

We cycle a few more km, thanks to advice given by kind strangers in the night. We reach Indopura Resort. But we get an unwelcome reception; there simply is no one at the reception to check us in. We wait, as does a local man in a car who say that perhaps the staff have left their post to get dinner. I check my bicycle and lower my saddle so that my hamstring doesn't hurt anymore. I also find that my chain is bone dry after a mere three days of cycling. We shower in the toilet and finally decide to sleep at the reception area, turning the sofas into beds. LYC ducks behind the reception counter. Somone had found an air-conditioned area upstairs but I think it's best to sleep at the reception area, which is "public". Anywhere else could amount to criminal trespass and I sure don't want to spend the night in jail. It is raining and cold, and mosquitoes are feasting. The worst is yet to be.

2 am: someone shakes me awake, and I don't mean the mosquitoes. A man peers over me. With the fog of sleep still over me, I stagger to me feet and stammer: "Ada rumah tiga orang" (is there room for three persons?). As it turns out, the stranger wants to check in too.
2.30 am, the stranger returns with his pals, and wakes up my pals. Stranger & Co search the entire area, looking for the resort staff, then hang around with their vehicles and chatter at full blast.
5.30 am: I hear the call to prayer from a mosque, followed by what seems to be morning exercises conducted via loudhailer.
8 am: a rainstorm blows off part of the roof of the building opposite ours. It's an impressive sight, complete with sound effects of corrugated iron flapping in the wind and a shower of sparks that steals the thunder from the shower of rain when the iron hits the power lines.

At least, we got a place to stay the night, and got there before the torrential rain. There's a toilet to shower in, the lights work, and we got a free night's stay, with complimentary bloodsuckers. Too bad that all my insect repellent does is smell good; LYC has an especially bad time behind the reception. Bikerboey and I are exposed to the wind and biting cold; I guess the wind makes landing a bit tricky for the mosquitoes. Which is not to say I got off scott-free; I count 13 bites on my right hand and eight on my left. So choose your poison: give up body heat or blood.

My right hand hurts; it's either the repetitive act of drinking on the move from my waterbottle, or I'd tucked my hand too tightly into my armpit during the night.
What a night. LYC volunteers to buy breakfast from the nearby petrol kiosk. We pack up and go, after saying goodbye to the local man in the car who'd come by again to see if the hotel staff had come back.
Nightstop: Indopura Resort


Pain in the ass
Day 4: Sat 20 Dec, Pekan - Cherating (Pahang), 80 km
The gentle, cool drizzle alternates with passing showers. The passing roadside scenery changes from oil palms in Johore to the occasional padi field in Pahang to flooded attap huts further north. As it turns out, we start our journey at the right time; one week earlier and we'd have cycled smack into foul weather in both Malaysia (floods) and Thailand ("so heavy, you can't get out of your house").

The occasional headwind buffets us and the occasional hill sprawls before us. I charge uphill, drafting vehicles at 41 km/h. Much of the time, the others draft me. I think nothing of the lactic acid that burns in my legs. My butt hurts the moment I put on my bikeshorts, but I think nothing of it then. At Cherating, I find out the cause of the pain: saddle sores. What caused it: the seams in my bikeshorts? Or the seams on my costly saddle? To play safe, I change both.
Nightstop: Lis Na Ree Beach Resort

Hard road, soft butt 
Day 5: Sun 21 Dec, Cherating - Dungun (Trengganu), 108 km
It's a long, hard road. The rough asphalt is wearing out my tyres at a noticeable rate. LYC wears out too; he drops off at Cukai and heads for Kuala Trengganu via public transport. He has a four-day break ahead of him.

Ahead of us, Bikerboey and I see an icon of US capitalism: McDonalds. The thought of ice cream spurs makes me go faster and takes my mind off my sore butt. At the restaurant, I commit a faux pax: I ask for hamburger in this Muslim state, where almost every female wears the tudung, including restaurant staff. There's no hamburger, just chicken or beef.

We meet two local bicycle gangs: the kids at McDonalds who peer at our bikes in wonder. By the coast, we pass by a group of youths on racers, and we salute each other. At Dungun, there's no room at the posh hotel we come across, nor at the boarding house by the beach. At the latter, the proprietor sends us off. As we ride by the coast, I think about spending the night again at another abandoned building with shelter from the sea wind. But there's no need for rough living; the third place we go to has a big, bright and clean room for us. Clean sheets and free drinking water too.

At Dungun, shops close at 8 pm, the only ones open are those run by Chinese. I buy a bottle of vitamins to hasten whatever healing my body needs - especially my butt. The sores have grown in geometric progression: 1, 2, 4. I soothe the sores with antiseptic cream. I then try gel for mouth ulcers - and never do that again. What's meant for mucous membrane somehow doesn't feel right for skin.
Nightstop: Hotel Kasanya

Toll road
Day 6: Mon 22 Dec, Dungun - Kuala Trengganu (Trengganu), 79 km
The road takes its toll on us. There's a headwind and I'm the windbreaker. I look down to reduce drag, breathe, pedal, look up and repeat (this has the added benefit of preventing neck ache). The usually buoyant Bikerboey goes flat. She hasn't slept well. At one rest stop, she snatches some sleep. This is the girl who hasn't let her cold stop her from charging uphill in the past few days. Looking at her, I usually won't know she is tired unless she says so. As for me, when I'm tired, you can see it written on my face.

This is the most spacious, well-kept rest stop I've seen - almost the size of a three-room flat. It's built on stilts over the road embankment. The ground is below, one storey away. It starts to rain. The silver lining: the creaking in my bike goes away, lubricated by rain. My butt gets worse, probably at a slower rate though, since I've changed bikeshorts and saddle. By the time I reach town, I'm knackered, thanks to the headwind. Our hotel room costs the same as last night's but is half the size and is more run down. The flush doesn't work; we have to use a pail. And the hotel man won't let me have an extra pillow (for my knees).

By now, I've settled into a nightly ritual: check and oil drive train, shower, laundry, minister to my butt. My legs are OK now, no need for massage. But I sure need sleep. At night, people yell outside the room and outside the hotel.
Nightstop: Hotel Indah


Missing
Day 7: Tue 23 Dec, Kuala Trengganu - Jertih (Trengganu), 118 km
Bikerboey has bounced back. She's plugged into her MP3 player and her singing is so loud, it inspires me to speed away along the tree-lined roads. It's cloudy and cool. I cycle at 30 km/h. I'm in good form. Like an eagle cruising for a thermal, or a limpet hanging around for a passing shark, I listen for passing motorbikes to draft behind. This is my idea of "free riding". We pass picturesque little villages, often unmarked on my map.

Our rest stop is abuzz with houseflies. I give it a miss while Bikerboey tucks in. I eat bread and bananas instead. The bananas are a real treat; we have been looking for them since Day 1. I also order hot Milo instead of iced drinks, unlike Bikerboey, who loves iced tea. I'll take iced drinks only if the ice has circular holes in it; this suggests it came from an ice factory.

Fuelled by a nice lunch, Bikerboey pedals ahead, surrounded by sound. I pedal at 19 km/h and soon drop behind. It's a slow puncture. Funny how a tiny little thing can cause such a huge disruption. By the time Bikerboey notices I'm gone, she's five km away. She backtracks for one km, then frets and ask passers-by to look out for me. ( Read her account of this incident in her log, Day Seven.)

I fix my tyres near Kampong Tok Dor and become the centre of attraction. Kids, then adults, gather to watch. By examining the inner tube, I locate the cause of the problem: a tiny stone has worked its way through the tyre. The stone is so tiny, I have to work the tyre to find the stone and poke it out with an allen key. A motorist, then a couple of girls on a scooter, stop by to say that Bikerboey is ahead waiting for me. It's a nice road winding along quiet, peaceful villages, with nice people.

My tyre fixed, I say terima kasih (thanks) and selamat tinggal (goodbye). My speedometer jumps with joy. After catching up with Bikerboey, I stop by a petrol kiosk to load up on ice cream. We charge ahead to make up for lost time, going above 25 km/h. I sometimes go past 40 km/h when going downhill, but I always look back and wait for Bikerboey.

At Jertih, Bikerboey says we should pick the first hotel we see, as it's getting late. That's prudence, following our experience in Pekan. We aim to stop cycling each day around 4 pm, giving us another two hours of safety margin. The first hotel has a clinic downstairs, probably for people who need medical attention to spend the night. Our room is all decked out in pink and frilly. But I see hairs (not mine) on the bedsheets.

I continue to conduct medical experiements on my butt. I now have four sores. Some sores get the usual antiseptic cream treatment; for the others, I use Zambuk for the first time. Lets see which sores recover faster (the answer: Zambuk works better). They hurt so much, it hurts to wear shorts (but there is no bloodshed). I start wearing a towel as a sarong.
Nightstop: Medic Inn

Tech note: I clean my chain reasonably well without degreaser: first brush the chain (including the edge) with a toothbrush, clean the brush with tissue paper, repeat. Go through the chain links with a mascara brush, clean the brush with tissue paper, repeat. I adjust the front d for Bikerboey, then we relax by watching American comedies on TV.


The magnificent seven
Day 8: Wed 24 Dec, Jertih - Jeli (Kelantan), 96 km
Unlike the plains of the past few days, there are hills today. Going uphill hurts my butt as the centre of gravity shifts towards the rear and adds more pressure to my sores. I can barely pedal because of the pain, but I press on, shifting about in my seat to find the least tender spot to sit on. My triceps hurt too. I leverage the slipstream of passing vehicles and get up to speed only when drafting Honda Cubs. Bikerboey pedals on slow and steady. Besides, the hills, the geography has also changed in other ways. We're near the Thai border and the Thai influence can be seen in the food. Lush green padi fields sprawl by the roadside.

At our lunch point, I ask to use the tandas (toilet). Mak Cik's permission is sought. She points to the back; is she referring to the bushes or some wooden structure that dots the landscape behind?
On the road, I see roadkill. A monkey perhaps, birds and snakes. Other remains are too mangled to tell. Now and then, I come across a dessicated patch of fur on the road. I see a dead pangolin, its legs in the air.

LYC's cab passes us and he gets down to cycle the remaining 1 km to Jeli. The others (W and C, K and GKT) join us too via van. There are now seven of us. During dinner, the van driver tells us stories of ghosts on the road.
Nightstop: Resort MBJ


Uphill task
Day 9: Thu 25 Dec, Jeli - Tasik Temenggor (Kelantan), 88 km
We start the day with me leading the pack, but I end up almost last, peddling uphill at about 7 km/h. The East-West Highway (Jalan Raya Timur Barat?) is 1,050 m at its highest point. There is a 40 km uptrend, followed by 25 km downhill. I clock maximum speed here of 58.3 km/h.
Going uphill is tough. People say my cadence is too high, but I fear I'll go into oxygen deficit if I pedal at higher gears.

As I shift gears, the chain falls on my bottom bracket. I try to shift my chain up without dismounting but am unable to do so as I'm going uphill. Bikerboey almost runs over my outstretched leg as I somehow unclip in double quick time. I whip out some gear adjustment instructions and fiddle by trial and error.

The weather has changed near Thailand. The sky is blue, not grey, and the sun is searing.
Joining us this morning is Mr Huang, our safety vehicle driver from Kuala Lumpur. He sure is handy with a knife and bamboo. He jests at K, who brings up the rear, and at me for being the lead.
Nightstop: Banding Island Resort

Daytona
Day 10: Fri 26 Dec, Tasik Temenggor - Betong (Thailand), 98 km
In the morning, it's uphill all the way. It's downhill after that, where I hit my max speed of 61.0 km/h. Going downhill at the East-West Highway is like Daytona, complete with S-curves and blind corners. But unlike the video game, this time I have only one life - mine. One crash, and it might well be game over. That dark spot on the road ahead: is it oil? a hole? or just different tar mix?

The road to Pengkalan Hulu is a series of interminable hills. Their steepness and the searing sun sap strength; people are stopping after just half an hour in the saddle. As it turns out, we are four hours late in reaching the Thai border. LYC, W and C turn back at the Malaysian side.

I feel like the king of the hill, because I've figured out the proper cadence for myself and can now charge uphill. My chain falls off again. I stop to fix it, then overtake everyone to take a photo. More importantly, my bold gamble on butt treatment has paid off. This morning, I decide to wear the first pair of bike shorts I'd started out with, ie the one I was wearing when the butt sores developed. As it turns out, the shorts are more comfortable when I'm in the saddle compared to the second pair. Mr Huang heads for home and in his place is Mr Wang, who drives us to 10th Chulabhorn Village where we spend the night.
Nightstop: 10th Chulabhorn Village

Dismount
Day 11: Sat 27 Dec, Banglang Dam (Thailand), non-biking day (travel by car)
We forgo a 90 km ride today from 10th Chulabhorn Village to Banglang Dam and sit in the vehicle driven by Mr Wang. I feel sick on the long and winding road. I've finally caught a full blown cold courtesy of Bikerboey, who's been coughing since Day 1. We've literally travelled the same road together, sharing the same woes and joys. Now, we share the same germs.
Nightstop: Banglang Dam

End of the road
Day 12: Sun 28 Dec, 9th Chulabhorn Village (Thailand), 35 km
After breakfast, we sit in the garden outside the Banglang Dam restaurant. We watch the sun's rays caress the different shades of hills in the distance before we hit the road.

The road is hilly like East-West Highway, but shorter. There is little traffic and like in Malaysia, drivers give cyclists a wide berth. Which is just as well, as there are S-curves and hairpin bends. Going downhill, speeds of 50 km/h and above is common. I'm charging uphill better than I've ever done before. The last 5 km is off-road. I bounce about and my headset shakes itself loose.
At 9th Chulabhorn Village, Bikerboey and I reach the end of the road. I've cycled a thousand km from my home. Anticlimax. I do my laundry and ponder the incongruity of it all, then thank God I made it without a scratch. I ask Bikerboey how she feels. She says she has no feeling about reaching the endpoint though this is the longest ride of her life too. Her joy was when she reached Thailand.
After dinner, I traipse along with the others to see a deer farm. I see the deer, but o dear me, I also see two leeches on my socks. I check my clothes later on and find another one on my clothes. First time I've seen leeches, and first time I've been attacked by them.
Nightstop: 9th Chulabhorn Village

Tech note: the front d, which has three chainrings, somehow seems more complicated to adjust than the rear d which has nine cogsets.


Four non-cycling days in Thailand

Morning mist
Day 13: Mon 29 Dec, 9th Chulabhorn Village (Thailand) 
Boat ride on the man-made lake of Banglang Dam, which is fed by Halal River. Leafless trees stick their skeletal remains skywards, like bony fingers reaching out from watery graves. The water is so placid it is like a mirror, reflecting the thoughts of he who looks into it. It is 8 am, early enough for the mists to shroud the hills in mystery. The boatman (who has a foot blown off by a landmine) turns off the motor and we glide in the water. Birds chirp to each other in a Babel of song. In the distance, the motor of another boat disturbs the stillness. Water hyacinth chokes the waterways. We can go no further to see where the deer and wild boar play. Our guide, Mr Yao, shows us the waterway where he and his comrades used to take supplies into Malaya.
We go trekking after lunch. I'm reluctant. "It's only half an hour", say Bikerboey and K. I lose count of how many leeches I scrape off with my Made in China "Swiss" knife. One of them makes its way past my defences and nestles between my skin and sock. Bloodshed; I make a donation to the ecosystem.

The waterfall at the end of the trek is high like a block of flats. The water roars with the sound of a dozen monsoon drains back home, streaming, tumbling and foaming into natural jacuzzi pools. The two adrenalin addicts wade into the cold, clear water, clambering up the rocks from one pool to another. Bikerboey shrieks with delight. Meanwhile, the rain falls in concert with the waterfall. Our guerrilla turned guide, Mr Yao, squats in his office wear beneath a huge tree to shelter from the rain, his head on his chin. He looks forlorn as the other frolick. Or maybe he's just looking out for leeches. He invites me to shelter under the tree. I decline, preferring to stay on the rocks instead of the leech laden soil. I also decline to join my pals in the water. I'm here for sightseeing, and seeing is what I'll do.

I have diarrhoea after dinner: seven times to the loo in one night - enough for a week. I eat the same food as the others, who are well. But I've guzzled more tea than they have.

Dreamland
Day 14: Tue 30 Dec, 9th Chulabhorn Village (Thailand)
I wake up tired and dehydrated. I'm in no condition to go anywhere except dreamland. I eat and sleep. The others go up the mountains to feed the leeches. In the evening, an old lady drops by. She's 60 and happy. She went up the hills to fight the communists when she was 40.

Back to the city
Day 15: Wed 31 Dec, 9th Chulabhorn Village to Hatyai (Thailand)
After a tour of the village museum by Mr Yao and lunch, I tour the village by bike. In a few minutes, it's over; too many trails leading uphill to goodness knows where. After lunch, we take a boat ride to Banglang Dam, then transfer by car to Hatyai four hours away. (GKT left for home via Hatyai yesterday.) We dine at Lee Garden Hotel, where the Communist Party of Malaya signed a peace treaty with the Malaysian and Thai governments. I've never been to Hatyai before. It's New Year's Eve. Fireworks light up the night sky.

Walking the streets
Day 16: Thu 1 Jan, Hatyai (Thailand)
Bikerboey, K and I watch Adventure 1 channel on cable TV, and savour the adventures of mountain bikers and hot air balloonists who fly over Everest. Our adventure is sedate by comparison: looking for bikeshops open on New Year's Day. We fail miserably. During lunch, we meet Amos, who drove Khoo Swee Chiow's support vehicle on the latter's ride from Singapore to Beijing. Mr Khoo's routine: ride for an hour, then rest and stretch for 5-10 minutes. He covers over 100 km each day. Amos too is on adventure: riding his way from Singapore to Indochina.

Homeward bound
Day 17-18: Fri-Sat, 1-2 Jan, Hatyai to Singapore
Finally, we find a bikeshop that's open which sells high-end stuff. I can't find anything my size and end up buying only tyre patches. K is empty handed, while Bikerboey has a shopping list from friends.
Finally, we head for Singapore. As we journey from afternoon into dusk, the incandescent glow of street lights mirror the orange glow of the setting sun. Pin pricks of light amidst dwelling places dot the blackness of the night on either side of the road, like stars in the night sky. Inside the bus are grumpy drivers and some passengers who can't care less about other people's belongings. Welcome back to civilisation. At Singapore customs, the bus gets a thorough once over by officers. A cleaner stops by to say the bus has been blacklisted for past shenanigans. The officers are nice to us; all we have to do is remove our bikes while they inspect the stuff in the luggage compartment. I assemble my bike and ride home from Woodlands. The ride, starting at 3.30 am, is uneventful. There are few cars, but a few cyclists on the road. Going to work or back to work?

PeevesWhen people knock over my bike. The fall at Kota Tinggi is the worst; one bike falls onto mine. My bike light flies off in pieces. My bar end is so badly scratched, I scrape pieces off with a pair of scissors so they don't snag my gloves. My rear d is hit and complains. It takes me a few tries to soothe it. The other crash is at East-West Highway, when someone is parking his bike.
When experienced riders don't ride safely. Instead of keeping behind me, one appears to my left, then to my right. As he revolves around me, it's hard to know where to swerve if I need to avoid danger ahead of me.

Puzzlement

• Do radio stations change their frequencies at every state? I have to reset my radio each time as I try to relax to music each night.
• Why do most shops close at 8 pm at Dungun?
• On the road to Jertih, we pass some kids who shout the "f" word and show us their middle fingers. Some youths also shout aggressively, another shouts keluar (get out). This is odd, quite a contrast from the usual friendly behaviour.
• Is it possible to ride 1,000 km without listening to radio? I think it isn't which is why I pack my radio. But listening to radio on the road doesn't work for me. Reception is poor; moreover, the the sound of the rushing wind obliterates the sound. And turning up the sound means turning out the sound of the road. So I listen instead to the sound of the ride: the woosh of the rushing air, the hum of my drivetrain, the crunch of the gravel beneath my tyres, the sound of traffic, the "hellos" of the kids. I listen to my bike, my breathing, the music in my head, and my thoughts.

Place (Betong)
The night air at Betong is fresh and crisp. The stars hang in the night sky and look so close you can reach for the stars. The tap water is like a cold mountain spring. The place is so conducive to life, wire mesh covers all windows and doorways to keep out all manner of bugs. Even the moths look like a work of art hanging on the wall.
It is so remote, there is no mobile phone network. There is a public phone, supposedly a satellite phone. There is satellite TV, which is tuned to programmes from mainland China. Chinese influence is strong; residents speak Mandarin and cook Chinese style, washed down by ubiquitous Chinese tea.

The 10th Chulabhorn Village in Betong, named Peace Village, is a resort run by former guerrillas, now guides. They make a living partly through show and tell of their lives as members of the Communist Party of Malaya (CPM). This village of 200 people was built in 1990, after the CPM signed a peace treaty with the Thai and Malaysian governments. This village, like 10 others, is named after a Thai princess.

After the treaty, some 800 remain in Thailand in four villages, while the remaining 400 ex-guerrillas return to Malaysia. The guerrillas include Chinese, Malays; people from Malaysia, Singapore, China and even two soldiers from the Imperial Japanese Army who refused to surrender to the British after World War 2.

CPM was formed before World War 2, and the communists fought the Japanese during the war after the British surrendered to the Japanese. After the war in 1945, the CPM "came down from the mountains". They head up again in 1948, saying the British persecuted them. For the next 40 years, they fight the British, Gurkas and Malayans. The CPM moved up north, operating on Thai soil. The fight was not with the Thais; the CPM merely "borrowed" Thai soil.

For 40 years, they've made the jungle their home. They ate anything from the biggest animal (elephant) to the smallest (rat). They're able to preserve meat for up to eight years by treating it, then packing it in drums sealed with plastic and tree sap. The villages are built on the site of where the communists used to operate. Literally. Besides surgical operating theatres, there are theatrical performances, living quarters, kitchens, town halls and other amenities of life in the jungle.

As laundry is a tell-tale sign of human habitation, the communists smoke-dried their laundry. They also designed kitchens such that the smoke is used to boil water and then dissipate like a mist near ground level, instead of appearing as a column in the air to reveal their presence. At night, lookouts sound the alarm when aircraft approach, so that lights can be turned off. The jungle is their home, their training ground, their playground and theatre of operations. Here, they laid down mines and for some of them, their lives. What a life: no annual leave, no salary, just a monthly allowance of RM6. Why did they do this? Because they believed in a cause that was worth fighting for and worth leaving family and livelihood for.

When Malaysia gained its independence from the British, there was more reason to stop fighting - the government was now local, not colonial. When the peace treaty was signed, the CPM didn't surrender their weapons; surrender is for losers. Instead, the CPM destroyed their own weapons in the presence of Malaysian and Thai military officials.

And here I am, pottering about in bedroom slippers along jungle trails where soldiers once feared to tread. It's surreal. One of our guides is Mr Yao. He used to make landmines and lay them. It's hard to believe that these smiling, gentle people who speak melodious Mandarin are the ones who used to strike fear in locals and colonials.

I also drop by the village museum, where historical documents, training manuals, photos and equipment are on display. They are masters of improvisation: land mines using sardine cans, ammunition pouches from rubber hoses. Somehow, with homemade weapons and Phua Chu Kang type boots (albeit in muted colours), they manage to hold out for decades. Mr Yao says some of their improvised stuff works better than imported stuff. He and his pals don't seem bitter about turning from guerrillas to guides. Or perhaps the bitter ones stay away from us tourists.
NB: the above account was narrated by different guides in Mandarin. Somethings may have been lost in the translation.

Postscript
The days in Malaysia pass by too quickly; they seem shorter than the days in Thailand. I'm glad I was there, sad that it's over. Cycling in Malaysia is like cycling in a magic kingdom.
My right leg is more tanned than the left. It's the result of riding in the morning sun as I head north via the east coast of Peninsula Malaysia. Life will not be the same again. What else has changed about me? It's been a big jump from riding 278 km (my distance record then) to 1,043 km. After cycling that long, something must have changed. I'm still finding out what the changes are.

Cycling: for almost two weeks on the road, it's been a ritual. Wake up and take turns to use the loo. Breakfast, pack and hit the road. Eat lunch, rest, ride. Break every hour or so for a few minutes. Pedal km after km, sip water every 15 minutes. In the late afternoon, look for a hotel, have dinner, check bike, sleep. When I stopped cycling in Thailand, it felt strange. Some of the Chulabhorn villagers were told I cycled from Singapore. They think I'm a member of the national cycling team in training. I tell them I do it for recreation. As I reflect further, cycling is more than recreation for me. It keeps me alive. Pedaling day after day without distraction, just looking at the road ahead, breathing and facing the sun, wind and rain, being one with my bike, slicing through the air, the scenery unrolling beside me like some endless, unscripted movie. Now what? Cycling in Singapore, with its "get out of my way" drivers, will never be the same again.


An old lady's perspective: how did the communists live on so little? They gave up so much: family, livelihood, city comforts like pillow and mattress. In exchange for living life on the run literally, doing backbreaking labour, for what turned out to be a lost cause. Some walked from China to fight. What did they fight for? I see a photo of some of them prostrating themselves before Thai royalty, which gave them land and livelihood after the peace treaty. For 40 years, they hadn't bowed before British, Japanese and Malayan authority. When Lenin came to power, that was the end of the tsar. When Mao Tse Tung took power, the emperor lost his heavenly mandate. An old lady tells me she has no regrets. She chose to join the communists. Now, she's tapping rubber for a couple of dollars a day. But somehow, she's still happy. She accepts her lot in life. And that counts for a lot.

Paean
This trip wouldn't have been possible but for Bikerboey. Her courage, steadiness and good nature naturally brings good cheer to all. My thanks also to Joe Adnan, Andy Dinesh and Wendy Chan for their advice. Thanks also to my family for letting me go on this ride (not that they could've stopped me anyway, heh heh).

Dec: 1,106 km

Wed 10 Dec: Fire at the back side
To Esplanade, 34 km. What is it like to cycle with a charcoal fire just behind your butt? Glowing a fiery red (the fire, not the butt), does lighting a fire behind your tender behind help you ride faster? Probably not, if you have two huge pails of satay and condiments on either side of your rear wheels. Yep, meet the master cyclist, the satay man. Tonight, the only other familiar face is D; the other three are strangers.
Tech note My leg doesn't hurt; I'd stopped biking for one whole week. It sure felt strange not riding. Knee felt a little funny, but it must be all that unclipping in city traffic. And a long warm up ride (over 15 minutes) must have helped.

Wed 3 Dec: 4 cyclists, 3 bicycles
To Seletar, 29 km. How can four bikers ride three bikes? When one of the bikes is a tandem. J and his wife show up on this magnificent machine - a KHS with Specialized sticker. Three cranks, 27 speed. As usual, J cranks out a brisk pace, tearing along the hills of Yio Chu Kang Road at around 40 km/h. The bike leader (me) ends up trailing behind the couple and D.

Tech note My leg still hurts. J tells me I should rest. Well, I did stop cycling but the pain is still there even when I'm getting out of a chair. Tonight, hamstring doesn't give me pain, but my thigh cramps (perhaps to compensate). Back home, I tweak my cleats again and replace part of the cleats.

Nov: 703 km

Sun 30 Nov: Better at night
To Sengkang, 31 km. I've been to Sengkang at night. I check it out in daylight - parts of it look like construction sites, not mysterious grass plains shrouded in darkness. But that large boarded-up bungalow surrounded by emptiness does look spooky. I see some cyclists and overtake one motor-bicyclist - he splutters at 38 km/h while I pass silently at 43 km/h.

Tech note Today's ride is my first all week. It's more of a tech ride, to test my new bikeshorts and fanny pack. And to see if my left hamstring is fine. I could barely walk on Wed - doctor says no cycling for five days. Strangely enough, it may have been the sit-ups which got to me. Still, hamstring may have been damaged on 17-18 Oct. And left thigh cramps after barely 10 km! How decrepit - I used to go 200 km without any pain. I drop by the bikeshop to tighten my headset - another perennial pain.

Sat-Sun 22-23 Nov: Real horse vs Iron Horse
To Desaru, Malaysia, 148 km. I move by bike, boat, go-kart and a real horse. Differences between a real horse and Iron Horse:

• Real horse has a real name: Charlie. Iron Horse is just Iron Horse or horsey for short.
• Real horse eats. Iron Horse doesn't eat; only the rider does.
• Real horse likes grass; good for its transmission. Iron Horse detests grass; bad for transmission.
• Real horse has four legs. Iron Horse has two legs and two wheels.
• Real horse needs stirrup for riding. Iron Horse uses pedals.
• Real horse has big saddle, comprising leather and cloth. Iron Horse has small saddle, comprising synthetics and titanium rail.
• Real horse has a tiny handle bar ("bit") in its mouth. Iron Horse has longer handle bar that doesn't fit into mouth.

Bikerboey goes airborne in an ultralight. She gets lighter too when she loses her breakfast after landing. But she gets on her bike and is her usual buoyant self. As for me, I feel dour when I lag behind LCT and JC who charge ahead on knobbies, while I'm on slicks. I hang on for a while, then drop back. LCT says I lose momentum when going uphill. That's true, but the return leg is flat. I gotta learn how to breathe and pedal again.


Tech note I set two personal records on 22 Nov.

• Max speed on flat road (at Hougang Ave 2) is 49.2 km/h; I had a boost from the hill behind me I guess. Previous record: 47 km/h.
• Max speed (downhill) is 60.3 km/h at Desaru; previous record: 60.2 km/h.

It's a matter of getting used to the gear ratios. I need to get used to my new saddle; I stop to tweak the seat angle a few times. On the way back to the Pengarang jetty, the saddle goes "sproing" and slides back. I thought it's broken; I need an excuse to get another one! About half of the 13 riders on this ride have Specialized saddles. What a pain in the butt. If a new saddle or pedal causes so many adjustment problems, it must be immense pain to have a new bicycle.

The pain behind my left knee comes back. I tweak my cleats, then realise the pain may be because of unclipping. The niggling clanking sound comes back too. It seems my front d has to be lubed for every ride to get rid of the sound. Maybe the crankset is incompatible with my new chain.

Photos courtesy of Gentle Giant

Wed 19 Nov: The old and the new
To Sengkang, 36 km. There are some old faces today, and a new one (J). I introduce them to the long quiet stretches of road in Sengkang and Punggol, which they seem to like. We end as usual at Casuarina Road, and a few more old faces drive there to join us.
Tech note GKT and WH cruise past me uphill, but not by much, before we run out of hill. New saddle hurts a little less; I've been desperately massaging it to soften it.

Fri 14 Nov: Pain in the butt
To Sengkang, 28 km.
Tech note It cost me over $100, but my new saddle a pain in the butt after 30 minutes. And try as I do, I still don't break the 40 km/h barrier. And the chain clanks somewhere around the front d. Try as I do, I can't find the problem area. So much for new equipment. But at least my hubs coast real well. Now, to find myself on a slope with some of the Wed nite riders and see if I can tear uphill like them.

Tue 11 Nov: Moon river
To Sengkang, 34 km. The moon glows like a brown mooncake through the clouds, with the silhoutte of trees across the glass plain cutting a jagged pattern on the orb. I sit by the the river, a shiny black ribbon, and reflect. God gives clear answers, but I find them hard to accept. I get back on my bicycle and continue exploring. Like life itself, Sengkang / Punggol has many roads. Some are enticing, but get me nowhere.
Tech note Still can't go above 40 km/h, though my cruising speed now seems to be 38 km/h instead of 35. Acceleration is slower than with my 7-speed casette. I'm still unused to the gear ratios. And there's a niggling clanking sound - I can't isolate the source.

Fri 7 Nov: The kung fu master
To Sengkang, 33 km. I get off work too late as usual to join any togoparts ride. I cycle around the carpark, tweaking my front d. It's not been working well since I got it on 1 Nov. I finally get it going to my satisfaction and head for Sengkang. Several long, quiet roads there with few traffic lights. As I head home, my entire front d shifts and the chain falls off. I twist it back and desperatly head towards Ang Mo Kio bikeshop man. It's almost 11 pm, but he's still around. In mere minutes, he sorts it out and the front d works better than when I first got it. His "kung fu" sure is good.

Sun 2 Nov: Journey to the west

To Jurong Hill, 73 km. It's nice to be at the receiving end of a BOAC bike ride, following instead of leading. I meet lots of new people today; as it turns out, someone knows the park connectors in Jurong by heart. Birds literally flock together. We walk on an abandoned railway track, ride past still waters, lunch at the top of Jurong Hill. And get wet.

Tech note It's just a drizzle, but my water vapour appears in my shifters. I don't have that problem with my cheap thumbshifters even in a deluge. There's so much gunk on my chain after two days of rain. At home, I remove the rear wheel and put it back on. Oops. Chain clanks now. Did bikeshop man force chain stays apart to fit 9-speed casette? Bike originally came with 6-speed. Today, I try to break my speed record but find I'm not fit enough for my new gears.

Sat 1 Nov: Smooth and light
To Kent Ridge, 51 km. Yesterday, I cycle towards a bikeshop in town, detour to one nearer home, and upgrade my bicycle there instead. It's got to be left overnight; first time ever that someone fixes it without me looking on. Feels strange to be without my bike. The upgrade is for a long ride; I decide to stand by by trusty steed after considering a touring, hybrid or new mountain bike. I write-off $200 from a past upgrade of Alex wheelset and 8-speed LX rear d. Bike now has XT cassette, hubs and chain, 9-speed LX rear d, Mavic 221 rims, Deore front d and shifters. This is the third (and last?) major upgrade. Today, I pick up my bike. Takes me a while to get used to rapid fire shifters; thumb shifters have one lever and are more intuitive. XT is smooth and light. Bike is now 1 kg lighter (same weight as a $2,200 Scott). I don't't break my speed record, but marvel at how easy it is to pedal. Total damage: $560. Too bad bikeshop man fits silver hubs instead of the agreed black! And I didn't know my Schrader tubes have to go.

Irony

Round island#6, 122 km.
I'm going below 30 km/h for most of the trip. Two groups of people pass me by. Group#1: mountain bikers at 32 km/h. Group#2 have two-stroke engines, and I don't mean their legs.

Tech note I spend the time trying to know my bike; its personality has changed since my upgrade of 1 Nov. I don't break my speed record; max speed on a flat road is 41 km/h, not 47. Why am I slower? Lighter bike = less momentum. Lighter rims = no "flywheel" effect. And I do have a dirty chain. But I break my time record for round island: 5 hr 50 min instead of 7 hours; faster ascents and efficient pedalling = shorter breaks. Perhaps the heavenly blinkers called lighting spurs me on to get out of impending rain. Butt hurts after 10 km despite bike shorts. What irony: I upgrade my bike to go faster but I'm slower. I upgrade my seat and end up with a pain in the ass. I bike to forget my woes but my bike becomes woe. But I finally get silent service: I tweak my front d and the niggling sound is gone.

Sat-Sun 8-9 Nov: The mist
Round island#5.5, 147 km. I thought my glasses are fogged, but no, I'm cycling into the mist at Seletar. The dew condenses on my shifters. Besides dew, other things fall: two bicycles and their cyclists. Blood is shed, but not tears. There are 15 of us, (led by Bikerboey on her touring bike) but most fall out along the way. At the 100 km mark, there's just three of us. I fall out too - I log the round island mileage, but fail to go around.

Tech note I've been cycling to fix my bike thrice today. First, the casette came loose. Before I get home, the front d shifts. The kung fu master (see below) says I should return to sender - it's the wrong size. I get to upgrade my Deore front d to LX for another $5.

Oct: 586 km

Wed 29 Oct: The classic collection
To Sembawang, 37 km. One inch tubing. Threaded headsets. Three old guys with three old bikes, in steel / chromoly and titanium. But boy, do we kick butt! T is 64, D is 56. D really gives a good run most of the time. Today, I lead the ride to explore Sembawang before returning to familiar roads. Twice, we separate and twice, I have to tear after cyclists to keep us together. WH leads us to a nice jetty at Sembawang Park, where we have a nice chat before going to Casuarina Road for a theological discussion.

Tech note Many people overtake me uphill. Why? Is it the overall weight, cassette or wheel? Read that aerodynamic wheels are good for flats and downhills while light wheels are good for acceleration and uphills. I have downhill rims - is that why I lag uphill but lead downhill and on flats?

Wed 8 Oct: Five days in a row
To Mandai and Bukit Timah, 44 km. I've been cycling five days in a row, since Sat. I'm addicted to biking. I ask "padre" to lead us for a short ride but that's not to be; we tear down Mandai and Bukit Timah, and going at 35 km/h is slow. I lose sight of the roadies and two mountain bikers including D on his Merlin. Sigh, I used to be the first MTB rider to reach the end point after the roadies. Even WH, on a 10-year-old cromoly with dented pedals, cranks out a decent speed before she heads for home. (Her bike, with front suspension, is about the same weight as my rigid bike! Sweet of her to join us for a while before heading home for a conference call.) We have two guests today: RL (from Penang Jamboree) and friend.

Tue 7 Oct: Pit stop
To Old Upper Thomson Road, 20 km.
Tech note It's a ritual; after every tough ride, I see bikeshop man. This time, it's to fix the headset, which keeps coming loose. To increase the amount of thread, I want v-brakes so that the headset thingy for cantilever brakes is not needed. Bikeshop man says, change the thingy for $10. He says v-brakes plus brake levers cost $50. I ask him to remove my pedals. He taps twice and it's free. How does he do it? "Qigong," he says. I shift the cleats from my old shoes to my Shimano M082 for the first time. After adjusting by the roadside, my left foot still feels uncomfortable; aftermath of last weekend's Penang ride? Today is the first time I cycle with contact lenses - and sun glasses. I look so cool! But once in a while, my vision blurs. Blink, blink - is the wind causing the lenses to shudder? Back home, I clean my chain, having figured out how to do so without making a mess: use Jif first on a cloth, then use Chain Gang.

Wed 1 Oct: The gang is back
To Yishun, 32 km. After a couple of week's absence, the regular Wed night ride gang is back: the "padre", GKT, G, B and I, plus two guests. We start slow, chatting most of the way. Only on the last leg to Casuarina Road do we sprint. One rider calls the initial slow pace "long foreplay". The sprint must be the climax. I lose the race; as it turns out, I had a slow leak. I pump up the tyre and get home before total deflation.

Tech note Back home, I struggle to remove the tyre. My tyre levers lose their leverage. I resort to a metal tool and damage my rim, so I file the damage away. Tonight, I wear my new Shimano M082 shoes for the first time. The studs catch dangerously on my platform pedal - Power Grip combo. I modify the shoes by removing the studs.

The good, the bad, the ugly

Deepavali long weekend 24-26 Oct

To Sedili and Kota Tinggi, Johore, 242 km. And there we are at Kota Tinggi, watching a programme from a Singapore TV channel: "The good, the bad, the ugly". This ride too has the good, the bad and the ugly.

What's good: the coastal scenery enroute to Sedili. It's great to be able to cycle within sight of the sea. It's no great coastal road, but it sure is better than Changi Coast Road where the sea is out of sight. The fireflies at Kota Tinggi are great too; never before have I set eyes on such a sight: a Christmas light-up in a mangrove. Once in a while, a fly will buzz by our boat. It's so ephemeral, so beautiful, yet so fragile. And, as usual, it's good to have a wide open road ahead of me with no traffic lights. And only me can stop me from going as fast as I want. This is also my first ride in Malaysia with SPDs without even a scratch! And no food poisoning - I eat and drink from roadside stalls with abandon. And I do not feel threatened at all throughout the 200 km of Malaysian roads. So what if the roads aren't always smooth and there's fast heavy traffic enroute to Singapore - Malaysian drivers are friendly and mild-mannered. Also good - I regain my form in day 2 and 3.

What's bad: trying to draft behind Bikerboey, whose bike has become three speed thanks to a faulty rear d shifter. Darn it, I can't keep up with her 33-35 km/h on the first day. My left calf cramps and I get a headache. Why? Is it because (a) the sun is too hot? (b) I'm dehydrated (we cover over 100 km the first day to Sedili) (c) my headband is too tight, just like monkey god's? (d) all of the above? It's also bad that I mount a solo search party, looking for the speedsters who are no where in sight while us laggards wonder where the hotel is. And the "pasar malam" at Singapore customs where, for some reason, I have to unpack my two bags and offer my waist pouch for inspection twice (the officer forgot he'd already checked it!).
What's ugly: the sight (and smell) of road pizzas - birds, monitor lizards and other unidentified dessicated objects. One particular corpse is curled up on the road, dried to a husk, contorted in its death throe.

Tech note After having failed to keep up with Bikerboey on Day 1, and considering the epic 1,200 km ride I'm contemplating, I contemplate getting a new bicycle. I draw up a matrix with buying criteria and grade the options using Harvey balls. But there are too many unknowns. And going to Cheap John's enroute home is just bewildering when I see all the beauties (bikes, not humans) hanging around. Anyway, do I really need a new bicycle? One cyclist on this ride has a chromoly Parkpre and two panniers which is much heavier than my bike - so what? It doesn't mar his enjoyment and he just powers on. Anyway, I think the reason why people tend to overtake me on hills is because of my gear ratios - my bike is seven speed. Of course, this excuse doesn't explain why Bikerboey could overtake me with three speeds!

A little bit of grit, a whole lot of grief

Sat-Sun 17-18 Oct
Round island#5, 124 km. With Status Quo's "Paper Airplane" reveberating in my mind , I'm really high. At Pasir Ris, I stop at the biggest display of bikes I've ever seen at a bike shop. Bikeshop boy says: "Is that an Iron Horse? That's a classic." At Changi Coast Road, I draft a motorcyclist: 41, 42, 43 km/h ... At West Coast, my blood sugar plummets. I eat and I refuel again at Jurong. At Jalan Bahar, pain shoots up my left leg. I stretch, massage, pedal with one leg. At Kranji, I rest for 20 minutes until 2 am. Pain remains. It's eerie as usual at Kranji. As usual, dogs greet me joyfully, four of them rushing across three lanes and a road divider to welcome me into their rabid mouths. At Mandai, I have an epiphany, remove my left cleat and the grit, then put back the cleat. A tiny change (the width of a grain of sand?) that leads to a big difference. From barely being able to put my foot down, I can complete my ride.

A moving experience

Sat-Sun 11-12 Oct
To Orchard Road, 26 km. We don't actually go anywhere, but it's a moving experience. Wendy Chan and friends spin 24 hours on stationery bicycles off Orchard Road to raise funds for Children's Cancer Foundation. Time crawls; I spin for what seems to be a long time, look at my watch ... only five minutes have passed. Butt hurts from the saddle; left knee hurts too. And the guys in front of me start eating brownies. Aaargh! I pedal two hours non-stop from 1.10-3.10 am, then seize a brownie as compensation.

Well, I can choose to get off this ride. Cancer patients and their caregivers don't have the choice of getting off their life's journey as they please. I manage to last two hours because I cycle from song to song on my radio. I guess that's how I'll go through life - choose the right frequency, then go from one song to another. If there's a song I don't like, I just wait it out. Companionship keeps me going too. I'm glad to see my friends there; we didn't arrange it as such, but there are cyclists from togoparts and BOAC. Thank God for friends - Wendy's Bike-Aid pals are there and they liven things up so much. One of the girls is so happy, going on and on, smiling like the bunny on Wendy's bike. As for me, I get back on the bicycle to keep warm, as it's been pouring rain. Thank God for strangers too. A lecturer from UK, currently lecturing at Singapore Polytechnic, rides a unicycle and distributes flyers. He comes back during the graveyard shift and plays the sax for a few hours to keep us going. I think about work on Monday morning and scoot off at 6.30 am, after having spent six hours on site. It's raining, it's cold and I want to crawl into my warm bed.

In a press interview, Wendy is quoted as saying after a tragedy: "Nothing made sense in my life except for cycling ... all I could do was cycle." I guess that's why I'm so demented and desperate about cycling. Wendy and friends raise $10,000 for charity. This is my third charity thingy (#1 being Project Care, #2 being NPCC round island); since I have to ride, might as well clock up some $ besides km.

Wendy calls herself a young urban fiscal failure. I wonder how many fiscally successful have friends like her Bike-Aid pals, and strangers who just show up to give up their time, sweat and sleep to support her.

Tech note Earlier today, I tour a few bikeshops in Tampines. I blunder across one after getting lost - lo and behold, I see two Iron Horses ... one of them is a titanium frame for $1,500. An XT-equipped version would cost abut $2,800. Hmm, should I abandon my old horse for a new one? What is a bike anyway; a tool to be sacrificed in the name of performance? Or part of me - a semi-living thing that should be nursed along in recognition of faithful service? Surely, some things do matter in life? Just look at the bikes of the Bike Aiders. Some of them have machines more venerable and heavier than mine, yet look at the mileage they log.

The examination

Fri 3 Oct - Mon 6 Oct

Penang, 62 km. Going for the Penang Mountain Bike Jamboree is like going for an exam in school. Stories abound of how tough it is. But I'm clueless since my toughest off-road experience was just one ride to Bukit Timah Hill (on semi-slicks) and another to Sentosa (on slicks); that's how clueless I'm about off-road. About 250 cyclists head for the start point at Penang Youth Park. WH tells me not to be so tense. But the only uphill "tests" I've taken are riding up Kent Ridge, Nanyang University, Mount Faber and Telok Blangah hill. It doesn't help that I realise I've left my medication in the hotel; the very thought makes me sick to the stomach.

We wait to start our ride, just like we waited to start to our exams. While there are hundreds of cyclists, each of us is alone. No one can ride for us, just as no one can write for us. Off we go just after 8 am. I'm somewhere at the tail, reluctant to start my journey into the unknown. A roadie at heart, my instincts kick in and I spur my Iron Horse onwards, then rein back to pace myself. We reach our first obstacle - a landslide caused by rain.

Landslide

It's been raining since Thu 2 Oct. When we reach Penang from Singapore on Fri, the 40 hours of rain makes front page news in The Sun newspaper: "Rain havoc in Penang". (While the Sun newspaper is readily available, the real sun isn't. The article is helpfully illustrated with a photo of people wading in water, plus a story of a capsized fishing trawler.) Our shoes and ankles sink in the mud, as we clamber up the 2-metre pile of mud and foilage. We're so slow, a pedestrian overtakes us. The queue builds up behind me. No turning back now. We are jam packed and I am stuck. It's every man for himself on this mudslide (though I hear others later formed a human chain to pass along bikes). I struggle to manhandle my heavy horse up the mud. When clear of it, I push my tyres into the constant stream of water flowing by the roadside to wash away the mud from my rims. The road is so steep, I'll need my brakes.

I keep pushing my bike uphill. My calf (leg, not pet cow) protests at the treatment. Some intrepid bikers actually pedal, but many give up. What's the point of cycling, I say to myself. Walk or ride, it's about 4 km/h anyway. Only in some stretches do I get to ride. This 7-speed horse is heavy and I get a full-body workout. As I push my bicycle with one hand, it tries to bolt and U-turns. Clever horse! I'm the sole rider of an Iron Horse here and the only one with a rigid bike. Around me, Giants, Specialized and Scott bikes abound, with a smattering of Cannondales, Gary Fishers and Santa Cruz. And a single speed bike!

Round the bend
We struggle on. Some cyclists seem to rest at every bend on the road. At each bend, I look up. The road continues to loom ahead, bend after bend. Talk about going round the bend! I tear off my makeshift rain gear: a laundry bag. I'm soaked in sweat. Somewhere along the hill, I top up my water bottle with "alpine water". There's no food. I'm glad I'm up at 5.30 am to get breakfast of bread and jam from 7-Eleven. (No breakfast at the hotel - it's too early.) I see some riders coming downhill - what's going on? JC the Mechanic Smurf yells at me: "Don't give up, you're near the top!" A girl shrieks as she goes downhill. I somehow make it to the top, then ride my brakes down the 40-degree slopes cautiously at about 30 km/h. So glad I'd tweaked the brakes in Singapore; these are the original brake pads. Plus original tyres and inner tubes, no puncture in them since Feb 95.

The off-road begins, downhill. It seems seductively easy at first. Then I see yawning chasms just inches away from the trail. I could fall off and no one would know, since cyclists are now rare sights on the trail. There are also wooden bridges barely wide enough for a biker and bike. Gullies. Slick rocks. Tree trunks. Each step of the way, I heave my horse ahead of me. At the point where there are two tree trunks, my horse falls, taking me with it. I gash my shin on the chainring. I pull up my sock to cover the wound, but my sock recoils at the horror and flops down again. The foilage I ride past embraces the abrasions. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Soon, I'm numb to the pain and soon, the mud covers the wounds.

How bad is the wound? I think of stopping at the waterfalls to wash up - after all, I've loaded up for the first time with alcohol swabs and big plasters. But I go on; maybe there's a first aid post somewhere. I come across a casualty. I have nothing for him except to show concern. He says he's been having leg cramps and waves me on. Now and then, when I come across cyclists, I make way for them. About 10 of them pass me by. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to hold them up. Other cyclists pass by as I stop to shoot photos and then wrap plastic around my camera each time after that.

One memorable spot is where the trail is almost vertical. A volunteer stations himself to lower bikes one after another. I warn him my horse is heavy. He gasps after holding it with one hand; while that works with aluminium hardtails, it doesn't work with my bike. At another spot, a rider kicks his Specialized downhill and slides after it. Other cyclists carry their bicycles down. As for me, I wheel my bike wherever it goes. Sometimes, I scoot along with my left leg while my right leg remains strapped to the bike with PowerGrip. I'm so glad I didn't use my clipless pedals. Once, my front wheel plunges into a hole and comes to a dead stop. My right foot comes free and easy. Only the paranoid survive. I warn the rider behind me about the hole. He asks me: "Why did we choose this hobby?"

Clear skies
Uphill, it gets so misty in the clouds that I turn on my rear blinkers. On the way down, I catch sight of sea level through the trees. A welcome sight. I haven't asked any marshall "how long more" because I don't want to know in case they give me bad news or tell me "almost there" when it's not. Seeing civilisation within grasp is exciting. I exit the trail near a rubbish dump. I'm now on the main road. Some officials stop traffic just for me. The road is the best part of the ride! I sprint at 33 km/h on my knobbies and mud-encrusted drive train. The mud flies off the tyres, adding to the collection of grit in my mouth from the trail. By now, I've stopped drinking because my waterbottle is mud-encrusted all the way.

I reach the finish line. There are several tents there and I'm not sure where to go - the vibrations from the trail are still addling my brain. I get my medal (which states "Phew, I survived" at the back), down some fluids and food. Time: around noon. Position: 96 out of 250 (I'm told 350 riders registered).

The first cyclist comes in around 10.30. It seems they pedal most of the way and are ahead of the pack from the start. The first Singapore rider is position #8. Most of the SACA cyclists finish the ride by 11.30. One of them asks me: "You just came"? While waiting for my assorted pals, I head for the first aid tent. The kid washes away the mud, which means rubbing the wound and applying alcohol to intoxicate the skin. Ouch, ouch, ouch. The kid stops. I say, go on. After the ride, we compare wounds. Some had fallen on the metal drain covers. Major abrasions. TYS and LKS suffer brake failure. I fix TYS' brakes for the ride back to the hotel; that she came soon after me without brakes is testament to her riding - and tumbling - skills. This is my wildest cycling adventure to date. I'm glad I came. I'm glad it's over.

After the ride, I watch the SACA cyclists look after their bicycles before they go for lunch. During dinner under a big tent, we eat in the downpour and watch the video of the ride, reliving the memories, the agony and the ecstasy. I ask rider #8 about my bike; he suggests I lighten my wheelset (some cost $1,500). We also hope to win big lucky draw prizes. Belgian W gets a Scott racing frame. There are also Giant frames and a Santa Cruz. Me, I get a t-shirt.

The beginning, the end
The journey to Penang starts with a ride on a pick-up truck to Beach Road. First time my horsey has been on a vehicle and so far away. The bus company wants us to box our bicycles so we don't damage his upholstery. I sandwich my bike in between two sheets of cardboard. We reach Penang via overnight bus. Our hotel is called "Waterfall". In case we forget that water falls, the ceiling leaks in places. That's the only let down; the staff are kind.

My first ride in Penang is on Sat 4 Oct. If it's a warm up ride, why do I feel cold? It's the rain. It rains so hard, it hurts. My mobile phone drowns despite two layers of plastic. We cycle through padi fields and village tracks. There's just over a dozen of us. I ride today just in case I chicken out on Sun. I'm cold, muddy, miserable and behind. My headset is loose again as usual and I fix it by hand. My bike computer doesn't work. I stop and figure out why - the wheel is the wrong way round. Duh! I chant to myself: "I am having fun, I am having fun."

On Mon, after an overnight bus ride back to Singapore, I cycle home in the drizzle. Piece of cake, after the torrential rain in Penang. I get home safely despite the bad omens of two accidents I see. And a few close calls, including a man at work waving a broom that might've gotten in my spokes, and the usual drivers whose optic nerves aren't wired to see cyclists.

Hall of fame

• "Making it possible" award to Ling the Merciless and Tchi Mun for arranging the transport and accommodation in the SACA entourage. To Jarod (and Roland) for the pick-up ride to Beach Road. And to Sue Ann, Derrick and the many volunteers who marshalled, stopped traffic, first-aided, fed, watered and cared for hundreds of us in Malaysia's biggest mountain bike event (a Guiness world record)
  
• "Grateful thanks" award to the the strangers who helped or simply offered encouragement though they too were going through the same thing
  
• "Cheerleader" award to Winnie, Bikerboey, James the Mechanic Smurf. Special thanks to Winnie for telling me about the ride, to Bikerboey who warns me to go with knobbies, to James for the big spanner to fix my headset and to Papa Smurf Nik for telling me: "You came all the way here, at least go and see the Penang trail."
  
• "Broken skin but no broken bones" award to those who completed the ride without brakes
  
• "Flash" award to the speedy bikers who pedal while others walk. Beykha, of course, already has an official award for being Queen of the Hill, reaching the top in 43 minutes.
  
• "Power Man" award to Lynten for using a single-speed bike and to Lioe for riding with the heaviest bike and yet remaining cheerful.

Tech note My new Shimano M082 shoes are now broken in. I've damaged it after removing the studs, but it's safer (and lighter) for use with PowerGrips. And bike has shown how weight is a disadvantage except for boxers and sumo wrestlers. Time for a new bike? It's hard to say goodbye, horsey has served me faithfully for so many years. It hasn't abandoned me, how can I abandon it? As Papa Smurf says, the best bike is the one you have the best memories of. And this ride up "Pain-ang" Hill certainly counts as one of them.