Running and rolling

To Mandai Road, 22 km. My fat tyres are squishy, having been unpumped for weeks. They're almost as squishy as my running nose. To get my nose dried in the wind (evaporation!), I roll out my bicycle. I intend it to be a slow ride. The intent disappears minutes later, when a roadie with aerobars shoots past me. I shift gear almost as fast as my hormones and before I know it, my wheels are rolling at 39 km/h. The roadie and I throttle back before the traffic lights. He's on an errand - to Jurong ... My mission, besides drying out my nose, is to cycle away the calories from the high-sugar cough drops I've been sucking so my coughing doesn't disturb my co-workers so much. Yes, I know. I'm a sucker at work.

Vicissitudes of life

Apr distance: 212 km

To Woodlands Street 13, 60 km. The sun beats down so hard, I sprinkle water on myself before heading out. A white man on a bicycle with rigid fork and rear suspension overtakes me, sweat pouring from his face. We play "leap frog" on the road at 36 km/h, he on slicks, I on fat tyres. We part ways at a fork in the road. I find a pretty park in Woodlands and linger there before heading home. The rain beats down soon after. So, it shines in the morning and rains in the afternoon. To rail at the weather is a waste of time. Maybe I should rail less at life too; just as I prepare for wet weather on the road, I should expect rain at work.

Space and time

To Lim Chu Kang Road, 66 km. Life is not just about atoms and molecules. Matter can be there, but lifeless (as is the case with roadkill). Living takes place in space and time. It's strange how I want to get out of my home but hours later, want to be home. I rush home so I won't get wet in the rain, yet am glad to be get wet in a shower. To be home is to be in the same space but different time. To be in a shower is to be in a different space, different time. Ultimately, life is about time, for it takes time to transcend space. It takes time to do things. It takes time to live a life. And a "good" life is about how time is spent.

Recce ride

To Bukit Chandu, 53 km. I've never cycled to Marina South before, so that's what I do. It's a nice flat place for cycling. I then head for the hilliest part of Singapore. Geographically, the highest hill in Singapore is in Bukit Timah, but the road uphill is off limits to cyclists. The most rideable place is thus in the south, with Bukit Chandu, Kent Ridge, Mount Faber, etc. I would've joined some people riding there, but receive mixed messages before the ride about whether it is an "invitation only" ride, so I have my shadow and my bicycle for company today, after a nice long snooze, getting up only when the sun is high up.

What do you really want?

To Singapore Zoo, 33 km. I've been on slicks since 24 Mar. Great acceleration, lighter and faster. But though they go further on the road, there're just some places it'd be foolhardy to go with them. They're more prone to punctures than my fat tyres. But since I've chosen to be on slicks, it's silly to miss my fat tyres. Sure, I could put on fatter slicks, but this'd be at the point where marginal cost exceeds marginal utility. Of course, these calculations make sense only if I know what's cost and what's utility. In a scarce world with unlimited wants, I've got to know what I really want. Then go for it. What's sub-optimal has to be judged in that light. Caveat: is what I really want what I really need? And then, some decisions are shaped simply by what's the right thing to do - even if there's a heavy price to pay. I meet two people today at work who're prepared to pay the price. It's my privilege to know them; they're priceless.

The man who would be king

Mar distance: 410 km

To Mount Faber and Holland Village, 66 km. I'm nudged off the podium at the King of the Mountain (KOM) race. I'm fourth, the same as my race number. Still, I'm a pretender to the throne: KOMM (the last "m" being "mtb" since the top three are on road bikes.) Some guys who start later have their times messed up as they're slowed down by buses disgorging tourists. I'm ahead of a guy on a full carbon monocoque road bike including carbon aerobars - and an N95 mask. On the way home, I see a man lying chest down on the grass. He says he's been robbed and lost everything including passport and air ticket. I accompany him to a police station, where he stops crying and becomes more coherent. "God bless you", he says. Yeah, God bless me; with the peat fires at work, I need that. I stop by a bikeshop to look at bags. As today is race day, my wallet is already light.

Dangerous liaisons

To Old Upper Thomson Road, 29 km. There's safe sex, and unsafe sexual practices. Like stopping the car by the roadside with lights off. Then pulling out suddenly. With wanton disregard for a had-a-lousy-week-but-still-training-for-a-race cyclist passing by.

Double irony

To Mount Faber, 41 km. I've right of way across a junction when two ironic things happen. #1: I pass a fatal accident sign. #2: a car whizzes across my path - to head into a place of worship. I want to go to heaven, but not so soon, oh demented driver. Later on, a taxi passes me, too close for comfort (pun intended). As I do my one and only lap up the hill, I wonder about tomorrow's race. I started training a month ago and it's boring. On the way home, a car toots at a cyclist, who raises his finger. One finger is more aerodynamic than raising a fist, I guess.

How would I know?

To Old Upper Thomson Road, 26 km. I rush to cycle and forget to bring my wallet, which contains my identity card and moolah. If I hurtle through someone's windscreen, I'd be an unidentified flying object. How would I know if that would happen? How would I know if I'd need to hail a cab home? How would I know if my training for this weekend's race would be in vain? How would I know if my work and personal planning for the years and decades would pay off? I don't know. But I know that if I don't do some things, there'd be more things I don't know. I also know there are people who don't have wallets and don't know where their next meal is coming from. Whereas, I know that my wallet is at home. What a difference that makes ...

No-alarm-clock day

To Mount Faber, 52 km. Weekends are "no alarm clock" days. After working hard to wake me up five days a week, my alarm clock needs a break on weekends. I get out of bed close to 10. Yeah, perfect 10. I don't get a break from training: the usual five laps up and down the hill. A taxi driver honks me and asks me where I got my jersey from. At the end of my ride, just as I'm about home, someone asks me "are there any trails nearby". The enquirer: a young dad who's "just back from Colorado".