Hearing is believing

Jul distance: 354 km

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

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

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

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

Creepy creak

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

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

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

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

Sometimes this, sometimes that

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

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

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

The start, the end or not yet?

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

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

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

Bleached bones, glittering glass

Former Malaysian territory in Singapore, 62 km. Yesterday is the first day a multi-million dollar project which I'd brought to life and nursed for two years is no longer my baby after I hand it over. And the day where Malaysian territory in Singapore, on which Keretapi Tanah Melayu trains run, is handed over to Singapore.

Today, I check it out the former foreign land. There are fist-sized rocks along many parts of the railway track, sometimes level with the sleepers, sometimes on the sleepers. The ground between the sleepers isn't always even either.

Besides rocks, I see bleached bones of small animals. Some are almost intact, perhaps a dog crouched by the rails to die. Sometimes, the bones are scattered, a skull here, a jaw bone there, bleached white in the sun. There's a snake, decomposed, with its skull showing and the rest of the body in slimy black. In some places, broken glass is strewn all over the track.

Bleached bones, glittering glass and hopeless hope. Despite the picturesque way, this is way harder than I thought. I almost derail several times. It's taken longer too. Time for water rationing. My rest stops become too frequent for my liking. Time to give up. I look for a way out and am on my way out when I stop. I'm near the end of myself, but maybe I'm near the end. If I tough it out a bit more ... and look for signs that the way will become easier.

Some metres ahead, the way does look easier. No more fist-sized rocks. And the journey ends soon enough.

The hand you're dealt with

Jun distance: 150 km

Lorong Halus, 49 km. This morning, I play cards. Life is reduced to what's on paper and throws of the dice. The economy tanks, stock market falls, I lose my job and go heavily into debt to pay my medical bills. For a moment, I want to fold and walk away. Hope less or hope none? Regardless, I play on. If I walk away, I lose. If I play on, I can hope. For most of the game, I play to pay off my debts at 100% interest while the others amass cash, property and stocks. I pay off everything I owe. The thought of getting rich through leverage doesn't occur to me, then I give away what's left, making me the biggest debtor and donor at the table.

This afternoon, I cycle with a newbie. It's as if everything is under control. The sun shines, drivers behave  and we don't get lost. Not a drop of blood is shed, not a scratch. And no dice.

Play the hand you're dealt with.

Ups and downs, good and bad

Woodlands, 60 km. While cycling in Timor Leste, a fellow sufferer said to me, "I hate downhills, because I know there'll be an uphill". A glass that's half full is half empty is the same volume of water. Given that same volume, do you label it "half empty" or "half full"? Depends on what you want to feel; to feel bad, call it half empty. To feel good, call it half full. In other words, let what you want to feel determine what meaning to assign to a fact. The volume of water is fact, half full/empty is opinion.

Recently, I was stabbed and shoved (metaphorically). I pushed back. Dominos fell. I was aghast, as if someone had gashed my bicycle frame. I also felt betrayed by the one I'd saved years ago; if I hadn't saved the person, that person wouldn't have been around to savage me, cost money and set off a chain reaction.

"How do you feel?" some ask. "It depends," I reply, "on what happens next." Now, I feel some relief as the future unfolds slowly. More bad things happen, as the chips fall. I lie awake - knowing it shouldn't be my problem anymore. And I make peace - in my heart - with the one who stabbed me

Today, I chase a truck on my fat tyres. 46.3 km/h. Some people would call it dangerous. I call it fun.

Blog counter crossed the 25,000 mark today. Thank you readers :)

Mr Blue Sky

Lorong Halus, 41 km. Grey is lifeless, dull, foreboding. Grey has dominated the sky, pouring misery and rain down. It's been so bad, the premier shopping district flooded again last week. Video footage shows rain pouring indoors, from upper to lower floors.

This week, I'm on the road after a two week break. 41 km is a short, fun ride. 42 km is a long hard run, especially when it is run at night without sleep.

The sun is out today, burning bright in a clear blue sky, with nary a cloud in the sky. I cycle gingerly, testing my ligaments, tendons and muscles. No pain is gain. I cycle sedately until a lorry is ahead of me. I draft on my fat tyres and hit 38 km/h. Nice, that left my woes behind for a while.

Epochal change

May distance: 471

Punggol, 35 km. There used to be a village here. I know someone who saw the sun rise while brushing her teeth. There were seafood restaurants too. Then, they were all cleared, and the land lay fallow for perhaps two decades. Wide open space, with nothing but beige sand, blue sky and green vegetation. Then, it got boarded up, no entry except for orange bulldozers and other big construction machines. Now, it's a park.

Why were the villagers chased away and the restaurants cleared? Pollution control, progress? Why did the land lie fallow for decades? Now it is going to be a scenic park, to be enjoyed by many. Somehow, I prefer it the way it was, rustic and scenic.

Where do we go from here?

Lorong Halus, 38 km. Public holiday. "Shake legs" at home, then pedal. Ah, a river without concrete banks, a trail without asphalt. My fat tyres roll with little effort. Then, the trail narrows. Tall grass, soggy ground, pools of black water that swallow my rims and dirt that goes "scrape scrape" between brake pads and rims. Vegetation blocks what's left of the path. But people have been here before me. I walk around the obstacle, the undergrowth wrapping itself around pedals.

Can I tell where the river begins and where the bank ends when I'm off the path? I reach what seems to be a dead end, underneath a bridge. There are two fishermen there, dressed in business casual. I guess they're workers from China. I ask one of them for directions. He certainly didn't cycle to this spot! I backtrack, and meet another mountain biker. He's going past the "dead end" and claims it's passable. He's heading towards storm clouds. Well, I've had enough of water beneath my feet, no thanks to more water from the sky.

As I backtrack, I come across a make-shift bridge and wonder if I should cross to the other bank. I decide to stick to the tried and tested. Good thing I did. Though the grass looked greener on the other bank, it turns out, from a proper vantage point, that there's no trail over there.