Just the two of us

To Sembawang, 35 km. There are only two of us tonight. I have a close call, not with a phone, but with a taxi. Safety tip: be predictable and don't drift from side to side when drafting; we all have blind spots. When we break, we talk about an author who likens life to waiting for a train. I reckon too much emphasis is spent on what is happening in the waiting room. To me, the room is a means to an end. We all have a one-way ticket. Where's that train going?
Tech note What a drag. My drive train is filthy and it adversely affects my speed.

Mount Awful

Sat-Sun 10-11 Apr

To Mount Ophir, Tangkak, Johore, 117 km. I'm at the cloudline but I don't feel on top of the world, nor am I on cloud nine. So, this is what it means to have your head in the clouds. It is cool and I occasionally see wisps of cloud wafting over the road. This is small consolation as I continue to struggle the 17 km up Mount Awful, which is almost 1300m high.

This is worse than Penang Hill, which has more flat surfaces to rest on. Though I'd been up Penang Hill (over 800m high) with a 7-speed cassette, I find Mount Awful worse even with a 9-speed cassette. I surrender my bike at the designated end-point: lamp post 51. Some intrepid souls venture on to the top of the hill. I walk, and salute WM as he cranks his way up to the peak. Now I know why there was a bike named Alpine Star - it's for higher life forms like him.

Bandage and tears

What goes up must come down. I reposition my bandage on my knee, which fell off on the way uphill. The bandage is for whatever protection it can give my abraded knee; I don't need more souvenir scars after yesterday's high speed crash. I gingerly ride my way down at 20-40 km/h. Though I've done over 60 km/h downhill before, this is not the place for me. On my left is the abyss. On my right is fallen foilage. In the middle are sometimes potholes and gravel. Other riders zoom past me. I tell myself that as an older guy, my bones are more fragile.

I bounce my way downhill on my rigid bike. At some points, I stop and walk to cool my rims. I pass a cyclist who has a blowout. I've heard tales about boiling hydraulics and overheated inner tubes. Not to mention the guy with tears streaming down his face in tandem with blood streaming from his wounds after a bad fall.

The reward after this Sun ride on a sunny day: cold drinks at a fly-infested shed. The flies feast at the bandage of another cyclist. A few of us had shed blood after yesterday's plantation ride, but none of us needed blood transfusions. After my crash, I feel more embarrassment than pain. This reminds me how gravel behaves in a high-speed turn; I only cycle off-road 2-3 times a year and suffer multiple bloody souvenirs on multiple body parts. My helmet saves me; its thickness lifts my face off the gravel. I fall so hard, there are permanent ocher-coloured nicks on my water bottles.

One stunt pays off for me yesterday though - cycling across some narrow planks. I narrowly miss a spectacular crash as my semi-slicks explore the edge of the bridge. Like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I say "cowabunga" too, as some cows in the plantation go berserk on seeing us. "Don't wear red," a biker says helpfully.

A ride worth waiting for
Yesterday, we wait about 45 minutes to cycle into Johore Bahru from Woodlands. Riding with so many cyclists is like cycling in a beehive, thanks to the buzzing of so many knobby tyres. At Johore, we wait again for the truck to take our bicycles to Tangkak. Someone figures the value of the 30+ bikes in the truck can buy half a house in Malaysia, while we make our way separately by bus.

I begin to understand why some people enjoy going off-road. Wide open trails are like wide open roads; perhaps even better, being closer to nature and with almost no traffic. And the speed can be exhilarating too: 25 km/h. I also understand why so many people stick their fingers in their eyes to wear contact lenses and sunglasses. this is my first ride in the Malaysian sun with shades. I understand why sunglasses are called shades; I feel cooler since things look cooler. But I ride downhill with my spectacles; inopportune blurring of lenses may mean I don't live to tell the tale.

My thanks to NH, JC and others who stopped to check on me, and to C for organising the ride.

Full dress rehearsal, into the mist

To Upper Pierce Reservoir, 19 km. Good Friday. As Someone once hung on the cross, pierced for mankind, I ride to the reservoir after the rain. The mist shrouds the road between the trees, even swirling about as cars pass. In place of my slicks and clipless pedals, I have my semi-slicks and power grips. It's heavy going up and down the hills compared to my previous bike setup, but this setup is supposed to be safer as I test my bicycle for my expedition tomorrow.

Mount, hill, ridge, park

To Mount Faber, Telok Blangah Hill , Kent Ridge, Windsor Park, 59 km. I've been up these hills but never one after another. There's no gnashing of teeth as I go up. But there's crashing of gears, so bad that the irritating clank with each turn of the crank returns. I mess up the approach because I'm on the wrong side of the road. I did get lost and I wonder how I find Blangah Hill from Faber. Telok Blangah Heights should lead to the hill but no, it's Telok Blangah Green. A "green" is a flat place, which people in golf-crazy Singapore should know. On the way there, I am surrounded by a flock of people jaywalking. They are bird-brained, but I shouldn't be rude ... about birds. I wear my contacts, which blur now and then. Puts a whole new meaning to "blind corner" as I roll down the hills. I want to go round island after that, but impending rain ends that thought. Back home, I find a 6cm gash on my chainstay. Poor horse. Must have been the manhandling up the ferry to Kundur .

Working, raining, sickening

Mar distance travelled: 691 km

To Woodlands, 39 km. I've been missing Wed night rides because I've been working or it's been raining or I've been ill. That's sickening. Tonight, I see people I've not seen before, all togged out in fierce-looking jerseys and bikes, cycling at a fierce pace. As I go at 46 km/h, one of them in knobbies shoots past me. I lead them to the sports school, where they do a few laps round the hill there. As we break outside the school gates, the surveillance camera has us in its sights. A security guard tells us to move. Well, we may be terrors on the road, but we're not terrorists. We adjourn to Casuarina Road, where service at our haunt has gone from good to worst after several management changes. There, B critiques my cycling style. GKT tells me B is a time trial champ.
Tech note My drive train has been behaving well since the Mersing ride. Nice, smooth and quiet.

Long slack ride

To Kranji, 77 km. Another weekend with the Bike-Aiders. I feel like sleeping, but that only brings pleasure for another hour or so. What shall I do after that? Instead of hitting the sack, I hit the road. I alternate between charging uphill and waiting in the shade. A trailer pulls past me, pulling a few other riders in the slip stream. That's when we really spin. We reach Kranji and Lim Chu Kang, which are unlike their usual rural self; traffic is so heavy, it comes to a standstill. Long lines of cars line the roadside as people make their way to the graveside to sweep the tombs.

Contacts with the road

To Woodlands, 36 km. Today is the first time I cycle with contact lenses. My earlier attempt some months ago ended in abject failure when, after a few hundred metres, my vision blurred. It happened again today but I pressed on, blinking madly. That worked, though my eyeballs felt kind of dry. If my contacts don't work, it means I'll make hard contact with the road. But it's cool to ride with shades; look cool, feel cool. Besides cataract prevention (I think), wearing contacts help to reduce neckache, since I don't have to raise my head that high to see the road. When cycling hundreds of km, each degree of elevation counts.

Messing about to Mersing

Sat-Sun 20-21 Mar

To Mersing, Malaysia, 322 km. The medicine label says in red block letters: "Warning. This may cause drowsiness. If affected, do not drive or operate machinery." Obviously, the doctor thinks my cough isn't contagious and I'm fit to work, since he doesn't give me medical leave. And if I can work like a bee, I can race with the rain clouds on my bike. So that's what I do this weekend, baking in the sun then soaking in the rain.

This is my longest ride of the year so far. It's the first time I've done two American century rides (100 miles or 160 km per century) in as many days. The first time I've been in another country during elections. The first time I use white soft paraffin for my butt and it seems to prevent follicularitis. The first time I eat two bowls of chendol in a row. And the first time I cycle long distance with Bike Aid-ers.

One has grey hair on top and sandals on his feet. His 10-year-old Canondale R800 has a plastic tray for a rack and plastic bags to hold stuff on it. In his singlet and platform pedals, he's one of the fastest in the group - and there are 11 of us. Also swift on their feet are R (who leads most of the ride on a Schwinn he borrowed a few months ago), IA on his Canondale road bike (with MTB cleats and red matching saddle bags) and MT (who carries all his stuff on his back).

This is a ride down memory lane for me, as it traces the first two night stops of my ride to Thailand. It feels a little strange; though that 1,000 km ride was a few months ago, it was another time, another place.

This ride is different. Then, it was cloudy and cool. Now, the sun is out. There's headwind. Lots of traffic (due to the elections). And doing 160 km per day over rolling hills (sometimes, four in a row) is no joke. There's time pressure; I need to get home in good time so I can rest before going back to my beehive on Monday.

It takes us almost 12 hours to reach Mersing from Singapore. On the return leg, I somehow manage to get home in about nine hours. Surprise, surprise, I don't get lost in Johore though I separate from the main group. I wait at the designated junction to Kota Tinggi but it starts to rain. There is no shelter, so I race the rain clouds which are heading south. I meet up with three others in the group. I tell them the rain is coming and continue south. Back in Singapore, the race continues. I get pelted with huge drops of rain before I get home. The cost of the race: cycling over 70 km virtually alone with them hills and with just one rest stop fuelled by a chocolate bar and two charcoal tablets (remember the two chendols?).

Photo courtesy of IA

Toe-clips and sandals

To Changi, 65 km. Toe-clips and sandals. Leather on seat post. Mud flaps on mud guards. And Milo with egg. I think the egg is served on a saucer separate from the drink. But no, at one coffee shop, the egg is in drink. And I drink it. So it can be done. What also can be done: cycling 30-40 km/h with toe clips and sandals. At least, R from Bike-Aid can do it. Today, I join them for my first time on a ride. What exotic bicycles; R has a Heron, JO has a Bridgestone XO3, which R formerly owned. The parts are so exotic, R gets them by mail order. It's nice cycling with them; I guess Bike Aiders are kind by definition. And it's nice that the weather has cleared up a little; it's been raining so hard lately there are floods.

Bewilderment and admiration

Fri 6 - Sat 7 Mar

To Kundu Island, Indonesia, 152 km. The crash of waves along the beach is like cycling. Both are rhythmic, hypnotic, idyllic even, especially in a place like Kundu, one of the Riau islands to the south-west of Singapore. My first-time experience there ranges from bewilderment at the hassle to admiration of the friendly folks along the way.

The prelude to the ride proper is a ride to Harbourfront, followed by a two-hour ferry ride. The bewilderment begins upon landing.

The hassle: It doesn't matter that I can get into Indonesia visa-free. Upon landing, a man in uniform walks up, checks my passport and says that as I hadn't been to Kundu before, I have to pay up. After I pay him, he asks for tips. Another man demands $10 for pushing my bike out of customs, though I didn't ask him for the service. And you've got to register with the area chief with a photocopy of your passport and more money. Somewhere out there in the boondocks, a man in a helmet and flak jacket yells at me. He's appeased after I wave a greeting to him. Back in Singapore, I'm almost abducted as the ferry pulls away even though my pals say I'm still on board. I take a running jump and barely make it on shore.

The ride: There are gentle rolling hills and roads that skirt the sea. Forests of trees provide shade along the way. There are fields of grass and villages of houses, some wooden, some concrete, some half-built or abandoned. Traffic is occasional. A boy on a bike way too big for him stands on the pedals and careens along at 30 km/h. Others chase us to point us in the right direction after we get lost. Another boy walks barefoot. A girl reads as she walks alongs. A cat limps along on three paws. There is hardly any roadkill. But this isn't a place for speeding; crashing into the occasional pothole at high speed isn't good for you anyway. It's a harsh ride on 1.25" slicks, given the rough roads. There seems to be more dogs here than in Malaysia. Perhaps because there are more Chinese here. Anyway, the dogs are silent and harmless, unlike in Singapore.

The place: This is a nice place to retire in. In Singapore, you'll sit on your couch in your tiny airspace and watch TV. In Kundu, you can sit on the beach and soak in the view - that's what the villagers do, as many live on landed property by the sea. They fish or grow their own food, which seems to be there for the picking. A sweep of the hand, the drop of a net, and presto, prawns caught by the moonlight.

The businessman: Bikerboey's contact, SB, is an "Indiana Jones" entrepreneur. He's been around the region sussing out a place "to make a few bucks". He sinks in $300,000 into Sawang Beach, catering to the expatriate market in Batam until the heyday was over. He's in the construction business and was involved in building Bridge #1 at Barelang.