Non-existing existence

To Admiralty Road West, 54 km. How do you prove that something never took place? How do you prove intention, when behaviour patterns are ignored, perception is selective and worse, insults are read when they don't exist? This is so unproductive. Unlike cycling. I hit the road past 11 am, having spent most of the morning and yesterday licking wounds. I'm out of shape but manage to keep up with a Cycleworx rider at 38 km/h on my fat tyres before we part. I spend hours exploring off-the-beaten-track, partly excited, partly fearful of snake bite; that's another wound I'd rather not lick.

Fireworks

To National Stadium, 29 km. While some people are selling their unwanted tickets to the National Day parade, multitudes are gathered around the stadium, on the roadside, on the pedestrian bridge, on the grass. Dressed in red and white (or at least in red), they're there for the duration of the parade though it can't be seen from the outside - except for the fireworks. Together with N and J, we smell the gunpowder, feel the explosions, hear the boom and see the fireworks bloom in the night sky. I pick up some foil that flitters down. That piece of aluminium was extracted from the soil, processed and travelled thousands of miles. In that fleeting moment of glory, it does its job as part of the fireworks, then falls to the ground, to be trampled and swept away.

Volunteer night (and morn)

To Labrador Park, 53 km. Tonight, there's a barbeque to thank the volunteers who helped at the Kent Ridge race on 23 Jul. The one who did the most cooking: the general manager, who organised the race, the barbeque and now, does the cooking. The food is good - and overwhelming in quantity. The company is varied too; some strangers, some old friends. Just as well it's not my last meal, as a car comes too close when cutting across my lane. The night is not over for me yet, as I cycle to church to handle food and beverage for those praying through the night on the eve of national day. On this day, I think of the men who, well, volunteered in the 1950s to take on the white men and the mantle of national leadership, eventually taking over (and wearing white). Majulah!

What money can't buy

To Senoko Way, 54 km. A family has a picnic by the river's side (one of the rare ones that doesn't have concrete banks). Some people fish in the Straits of Johore. Three men sit on the kerb, with three bottles in front of them. All for free, as money can't buy a real family, get fish to bite bait or friendship. Or real sleep. I spend much of the weekend plugging my sleep deficit; I start cycling today at 1045! I find some single tracks, but these peter out. And I find that progress has beaten me to more off-the-beaten paths; where I used to be able to cycle are now out of bounds. Still, there are still houses that have gargoyles on their gateposts to look at.

Too much, too little

To Old Upper Thomson Road, 19 km. There's too much work when a) I wake up in the night thinking about it and can't fall asleep after that. b) when a bikelog reader asks if I'm overworked as I got a bikelog date wrong. c) when I ask myself if I should cycle tonight since I'm leading a strategy review tomorrow. Well, I can't take it anymore: too little sleep, too little cycling. So I cycle. My pedaling muscles seem connected to my smiling muscles; as I cycle, I can't help but smile. I meander about; just five km out of this highrise jungle, there is cool night air and quiet roads. And it's all free! (OK, I pay taxes but still ...)

Overgrown undergrowth

Jul distance: 223

To Jalan Ulu Sembawang, 34 km. The undergrowth is so overgrown, it tangles up my feet and my pedals, and winds itself around the casette. Twenty years ago, this used to be a road wide enough for lorries to pass each other. People used to live on either side of the road. Now, it's grass, trees, the occasional flower and lots of nature. Elsewhere along this part of Singapore, I see people in the jungle. One group wears construction helmets and emerges with a pail of durians. There's single track too, but it peters out and grass claims what's left of the road. Also in abundance: rain. I notice that a drizzle dirties my , but a downpour cleans it. Does this apply to storms in my life? Small trouble irritates. Big trouble cleans out what doesn't really matter, making clear what does.

Glad, sad and mad

To Kent Ridge, 51 km. Today is the first official race at Kent Ridge mountain bike trail, which deserves its reputation as the toughest in Singapore. I volunteer as a road marshall; as some riders pass me, they signal how tough it is; one even does a throat-slitting motion. I'm glad to of some use to them, directing mostly friendly pedestrians out of harm's way, including someone on a wheelchair and another old lady who had to be helped uphill (which makes walking single file difficult). Just standing as a road marshall was strain enough on my back. But I try the route when the race is over, just to see how my back takes it. One lap leaves me drenched in sweat but without a scratch; not even where I last fell. I'm sad I'm not in a position to race. I'm mad as I'd thought other cyclists would look out for their own kind, but the greatest alarm is caused by three non-racing bikers who weave uphill and, at one point, stop to run alongside a competitor.

Placid on the outside, raging on the inside

To Upper Thomson Road, 22 km. On the outside, I look like someone on a leisurely ride. On the inside, I'm disturbed. My back hurts; it's been so since 18 Jun after I break the cardinal rule of using new equipment (in this case, my saddle) on an expedition only after it has been extensively road-tested and adjusted. Or perhaps it's psychosomatic: my work is back-breaking. This morning, I wake up at 2 am to write an office email ... And because of work, I decide not to go for an advanced mountain bike clinic this Fri. Which is just as well. Like bikeshop man says today, after adjusting my rear d for the 4th time this year, it costs money to ride.

A different perspective

To Portsdown Road, 52 km. I got "squashed" at work yesterday. There's so much work, I worked past midnite and still bring work home. Not that anyone knows. I want to sulk at home, but drag myself out on the busy streets where more people are out to knock me down. On a whim, I turn into Little India. Not only is there vehicular traffic, there's foot traffic too. But somehow, I mind it less, since I expected more hazards. A little turn, a different perspective, and the world looks different. It's a different ride tonight too, as I meet some friends on a dinner ride, cruising to Holland Village and Lau Pa Sat for dinner and supper. At the latter, an acrobatic troupe whirls and twirls, achieving amazing feats of balance that cyclists are unable to even dream of.

Sands of time

To Kent Ridge and East Coast Parkway, 64 km. Cycling makes me younger, which is why I make two newbie mistakes today: one with my clipless pedals (unclip on the right, fall on the left) and the other losing traction on gravel while going uphill. Besides going back in time today, I also make several marks in the sands of time. I'm probably the first person on the Kent Ridge trail, not just on semi-slick tyres but also on a rigid bike. Today is the first time when I'm on a ride where everyone is a race medal winner, with me, the sole guy, having the least wins. I also see a triathlon with my own eyes instead of on TV. And hold a triathlon medal - alas, not mine. If I didn't have bad knees, I'd take part too. Today is also the first time I visit a traditional Chinese medicine clinic, and have acupuncture too, for my bad back. And I cross the 30,000 km mark on a . With all these firsts, a song plays in my head: Madonna's "Like a virgin".