From exhaustion to epiphany

2-3 Jun, Kluang, Johore, Malaysia, 317 km

Exhaustion
Day 1: Kluang, 169 km. I am up before dawn after about four hours of sleep. The roadies are rolling. I am the only one on fat tyres and a tube bag. I am trying out my new traveling rig. Which breaks the rule: never try anything new on a long ride. But I tell myself, this is a short ride. I use 2x600 ml bottles instead of the usual 700, and thin gloves. This is a recovery ride for me, real cycletherapy.

31 May marked the last day of an era. On top of that, 1 Jun is the third - and final - part of a year-long, sorry saga (well, it'd have more parts if the preceding year was counted too). With the culmination of these, something died inside me - or was something born?

Rough journey ahead. So fun!

So, I am glad to be on this ride, despite my heavy heart and heavy tyres. Can healing be hurried? If outer self (skin) hurts, use aloe vera. Cycling is aloe vera for inner self (spirit) hurts. My bicycle buddies, cycling chums are well-dressed as usual, in shirts even. They don't know what's eating me up inside, but cycling with them is therapy. V hasn't seen me for a year, he says I've lost weight. Heavy burdens tend to do that. Anyway, both of us have LX components. "Great minds think alike," he says, and adds, "Fools seldom differ."

As the kilometres pass beneath my wheels, clicks rise up. I dismount and tighten some bolts. The clicks continue. It can't be my middle chain ring, not when the Lord of the Rings has fixed it. Perhaps it's from the hole in my soul? It turns out, the clicking isn't metallic, but organic. It's my knee. I know, because I can feel it when I touch my right kneecap.

To add to the disorientation, I see fragments of familiar scenes, interspersed with the unfamiliar. Johore used to be my playground. Now, it looks so different. According to V's GPS, there's no road where we're cycling. Sure enough, the tarred road disappears. I stir from my stupor. On the wide, long swathe of dirt road, I jolt about at 28 km/h, overtaking a couple of cars. The drivers wish to protect their suspension, my bicycle has none to protect.

Darkness falls. So pretty ...

At Kluang, there's no room at the inn. We visit half a dozen before we find a place for the eight of us and our magnificent machines.

Now, I'm exhausted in body and soul. I want to sleep during dinner, but sleep eludes me. The thinking and feeling I'm cycling away from return with a vengeance. What's the point of going away if you feel the same? Low frequency vibrations permeate the room. I plug my ears up, but ear plugs don't quieten my heart nor silence the reverberations from karaoke. Now I know why there's room in this inn ...

Nightstop: Milano Hotel

Epiphany
Day 2: Singapore, 148 km. I hardly slept. I'm barely awake. I'm slow today. My knee clicks, my heart is heavy. Or is it the headwind? Rather than get emotional, I get technical. I cycle offroad, parallel to the road. I do compensatory gear shifts. I pedal circles and note there's less strain on my knees.

Road ahead. What lies beyond?

Life is about choices, not just accepting what it hands to you. Someone once told me, the glass is not half full. It is not half empty. It is both. Looking at the half full side, I recall how I end up cycling with these people: years ago, a "chance" meeting at a charity event. And it was "chance" that triggered the chain of events that led me into this funk.

It's hard to forget. As I removed my slippers last night, the plastic bag reminded me of that which was once pleasant, now painful. Then, I pass "Klinik Australia", which reminds me why I fled to Australia.

Cycling, especially over hundreds of km, does something. Somewhere over the rolling hills, over 200 km into the ride, over a garbage-juice soaked road strewn with trash, I realise that amidst loss, there is a glimmer of a new future. The way it was, was the way it would've stayed, just more of the same. Now, maybe, there may be a different, better future. Not immediately, of course, but someday. I can imagine what that future is, I'll need to work at it. As John Macarthur said, you can't control the results, but you can control the effort. There's nothing to say that things can't get better. So, that's how to deal with "what now" problems, where something has happened and there's nothing to be done about the past, just the future. Which leaves me to deal with the "now" problem, which is the present, that which is still happening. 

Then I realise what a nice day today is, cool and cloudy, perfect for cycling.

griefk

Friend or foe?

May distance: 289 km

Woodlands, 51 km. Two woes hit me one week after another last month, which got me into "go away or go crazy" mode. In the coming week, the results of both woes will be seen and felt, not one week after another, but one day after another.

Cycling feels like a chore today. Push bicycle out the door, put up with inattentive, insolent, insane drivers ... it'll be easier to lie back and do nothing. That's cycling as a foe.

But knowing what I'll face this week, I head out onto the roads. When things look bad and I can't stop the tide, the clock or the sunset, at least, I can cycle. That's cycling as a friend.

Same outside, same activity, but the inside feels different.

Heavy mettle

Lim Chu Kang, 77 km. Last week, I didn't cycle; still reeling. It takes energy to recover. Today, as some friends take a slow boat to an distant Indonesian island, I continue my feeble preparations to say goodbye to an era. Then, it's time for cycletherapy.

Saturday is a working day for some. There's heavy traffic. Heavy vehicles whizz by. After a Y junction, I look behind me to see if it's safe to filter right to left . Two vans filter from left to right behind me. An overtaking car, going against traffic flow, heads right at me. A van overtakes me and cuts into my lane. A dog runs out in attack mode.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" I yell and it hesitates. But not the mangy cur across the road, which shoots across the road towards me. I hear its heavy panting and crank it up to leave it behind. If only it is as easy to leave behind the things at the back of my mind. It starts to drizzle. This is after a scorcher of an afternoon at 34 degrees Celsius.

As it turns out, this is the end, not the start, of watery misery. When I near home, I find the worst of the rain is over. My heavy heart is a little lighter.

Lord of the rings

Woodlands, 62 km. It's been hard to find a middle chainring. I'd placed an order with a bicycle shop (#0). "We'll let you know when it comes." Days pass, silence. I call and am told. "Not yet, I'll let you know when it's here." Days pass, silence. I call again. "No stock," is the answer. Two weeks have passed since I placed the order. I cancel it.

Today, I resolve to find a shop which has the ring. Shop #1 has big ring and tells me to go shop R. Shop #2 has an XT middle ring but dares not install it; my crank is several years older than the ring. Change the crankset, I'm told. Shop #3 offers to order from the distributor. I reply the answer is "no stock". He says that may be a polite way of saying "don't want your business," and asks me to call him a few days later. Shop #4 (R) is closed. I go to Shop #5, which is closed. I'm just a few minutes past closing time.

A man at the door asks me what I want. I lift up my bicycle to show him the chain ring. He says he has a ring and names a price double what I expect. "At least an SLX," he says. He agrees to fix it on the spot, and reverses his shop-closing sequence. He has a basket full of chainrings! "Second hand?" I ask. He reads my mind and tells me it is a good price; he usually waives labour charge only when he sells entire components. He washes the ring and shows it to me. It looks shiny, new and similar to what I saw in Shop #2, ie, XT. I marvel at how the metal gleams and the tiny holes drilled in it to lower rotational mass.

I put the new ring through its paces. Super. Is it my imagination, or is the crank quieter and more effortless to pedal?

When part of something is broken, it doesn't mean all of it is junk. Don't give up even if several persons say it's hopeless. Look elsewhere for the answer. It's my crank, it's my life.

Shine and rain

Jalan Bahar, 99 km. We're supposed to cycle today, rain or shine. First, it shines. The scorching kind of shine. First, a really late comer. In the maze of roads, I figure she'll be lost so I go look for her.

Then, a guy has a problem with his front derailleur. The barrel adjuster fails to adjust as it is out of the barrel :o Another pain-in-the-fingers repair job. Even after I fix the barrel adjuster, the chain remains on the granny gear. I look at the derailleur itself and adjust what's left of the frayed cable so the chain remains on the middle chain ring. Sooner rather than later, the cable snaps. Rental bikes ...

Then, in the heat, hills and off road, a guy cramps repeatedly and walks. When he catches up, applause breaks out. We haven't reached where we're supposed to, but getting to where we are has taken longer than planned.

And so we break for lunch. Organiser says, everyone buys the sweeper (me) coffee. Not that I drink the stuff. During lunch, the late comer buys me an isotonic drink for looking out for her. Sweet. A few others offer handshakes.

And then we part. Dark clouds form, water falls. Ah well, at least it helps wash off some of the mud.

Back home, I realise my thumb - and head - aches. It's been a long day.

House call

Apr distance: 665 km

Kranji, 67 km. I make a house call to check three marvelous Marins: steel frames, threaded headsets and cantilever brakes. At least, they were marvelous once. Now, they are coated in rust and dust. I diagnose but what ails them most is not user serviceable. I end my toil, pack my tools, drop them at home and rush to beat the sunset and blow off cobwebs in my head.

I end up cycling on a trail in the dark, with cobwebs in my face. With ghostly green blinkers, I'm not exactly well-equipped.

A loud rustling helps me understand the meaning of "heart in my mouth". But my darkness in Darwin has made me fear-less. Now, as then, I am glad to see street lights again though.

Misaligned

Woodlands, 63 km. I usually don't cycle so soon after an expedition, but I do want to get my bicycle fixed and clear my head. I pass bikeshop man a front derailleur I'd found in my storeroom. He says its compatible, breaks the chain, installs it then goes "huh". Incompatible. He reads my mind that I don't want to break the chain again, nor do I really want to reinstall the previous, worn-out-and-rattling front d. He digs up a second hand front d and sells it for half price. He adjusts the rear d and makes it worse.

It shifts well on the stand but not on the road, under load. I ask if the rear d hanger is bent. He uses a long tool for precise adjustment and alignment. Soon, all is well. The rattling chain is gone. The rear d shifts well, like a hot knife cuts through butter - effortless, soundless. The occasional clunk when I pedal still happens, but mostly it is smooth sailing. It feels so good, when things are aligned.

"Gone troppo"

15-19 Apr, Darwin, Australia, 420 km

Prologue
Expedition #12 has several firsts for me:
a. cycling in a First World, Western country. No phrasebook needed (ok, I learnt a bit of 'Strine before I went, such as "hotel" (it can have a different meaning) and "roadhouse".
b. the least time elapsed between start and finish. Usually, I take a few months, on and off, to plan a trip. For this trip, time elapsed between decision to go and flight departure is 12 days, inclusive. Why: "go away or go mad"
c. hub and spoke travel. My base is Frangipanni Bed & Breakfast; I sally forth from here daily,  instead of lugging my luggage from one place to another. I leave my seatpost racks at home and each day, use a bum bag with shoulder straps for food and spares. As the bag sits lower down my back, it's cooler. And the shoulder straps support the weight.
d. the longest day in a foreign country, with 18 hours on the road one fateful day (and night).
e. bicycle goes missing ...

Lost and found
Day 1: 15 Apr, non-cycling day. On the way to the airport, taxi driver asks why I need to fly my bicycle: "Aren't there bicycles in Australia?" He adds that I don't look fit; fit people wear jeans and sneakers while i look like I'm going to take a bus. And people who go pn holiday look excited, but I look weary. Well, I think to myself, woe tends to wear one down, which is why I'm taking a trip. And I am taking a bus: an Airbus A320.

After touch down, i wait for my bike box. And wait. One worker says: "It's coming, I hope." Another tells me later that I should exit customs and immigration, and ask airline staff for help, otherwise I'd be waiting all night. So out I go. I can't find anyone from my airline; this is already 16 Apr, around 2 am. How can a 1.4m long box go missing?

After more scurrying back and forth, I talk to a worker who tells me good news. I am so happy to see my bicycle box.  Customs opens my box in my absence but nothing is lost. By the time I shower and go to bed, it is 3 am. I sleep 4 hours, with a dream about work and someone at work.

Headwind and turbulence
Day 2: 16 Apr, Darwin and its environs, 111 km. I'm glad I come with my fat tyres. Now I know what "flowing trails" mean. Up and down, left and right, sometimes in quick tempo. There are some sudden drops and gullies. I walk down. Dented ego is better than dented body. The trail seems little used, with spider webs. When I clean my sunglasses, I see web hanging from it. I lunch at McDonalds. An aborigine kid with Happy Meal smiles happily at me.

Back on the road, I see a road train. The biggest is three containers long, with 32 tyres. I stop for a break. Banana and water are hot to the touch. A haunting Men at Work song plays in my head: "I can't get to sleep, I think about the implications, of diving in too deep."

Having seen much of Darwin, I take a beautiful park connector to Palmerston. My crank clangs. I stop to see if a screw is loose. A lady on a yellow Canondale stops and asks if I'm ok. By mid-afternoon, I am knackered, pedaling at a piddling 15 km/h. The dry heat and headwind take their toll. I am glad to put my bicycle in the room. After sleeping four hours yesterday, I go to bed at 9 pm. Fat hope, sleep eludes me, I'm still awake after 1.5 hours. Little do I know, it's the harbinger of things to come.

White line, life line
Day 3, 17 Apr, Adelaide River, 244 km. Australia has much wildlife. On Day 1, I see a green frog on a door. I think it is an ornament until it crawls away - on the vertical surface. A roach crawls away under my room door. On Day 3, I pour tea out from a kettle and see legs. Spider-flavoured tea.

On the road, I find a bottle cage hanging by one bolt. I repair it using a discarded point of sale display. Who says advertising is useless? Headwinds again. I'm making poor time. I stop at a petrol kiosk. A bottle of Coke costs almost AUD4? The change in heavy coins turns my Shimano XT into Alivio by weight.

I look up at the clear blue sky. A bird makes no headway against the wind; it just hangs in the air. Not being headstrong, it turns tail and turns headwind into tailwind. I push on. Is that why Aussies call bicycles "push bikes"? At noon, I stop for lunch at an orchard. I'd packed some bananas. I eat one then try to clean something off the remaining one. It breaks and falls on the soil. I try to pick it up, intending to eat the clean side. It slops through my fingers. My brain is fried in the heat, blood glucose is low, hand-eye coordination is poor. Time for emergency rations: M&Ms.

I want to stay in the orchard longer. The wind is cool and nice when it is not a headwind. I push on grimly in the searing heat. With the wind and slopes, I'm making 15 km/h. Ahead, I see a sign. Food! I'm the sole customer at this diner at Acacia Hill. There are three fridges of cold drinks. I'd go crazy if I had energy. As I set off, shopkeeper says: "Have fun." Yeah, if I am solar powered.

Road trains pass me. Usually, they give me half a lane's berth, then swing back to the white line at the side of the road, so I don't get sucked under any of the 32 wheels. I reach Adelaide River at 4.45 pm. The last 10 km is tough. I ask shopkeeper if road trains run at night. They do. It gets dark. No street lights at all. Over the trees, stars look like fluorscent lights. When traffic comes over the hill, it is like sunrise, and blinding. My little red skull blinker casts an eerie green glow on the road behind me. My sole front light is on blinker mode, to conserve electricity. If it fails, game over. My skull light fails.

I stop to turn it back on. My legs cramp, just because I stop and stand. Where is Acacia? I stop at a well-lit phone booth whose brightness in the darkness is like a beacon of hope.  There is a small sign in the booth. Acacia! Cramping, I hobble and push my bicycle to the gate of the diner, which is unlit. If it wasn't for that phone booth... A light comes on, shopkeeper has seen my light. I buy 1.5l of water. He has no food. He chats a bit, says there's a 24 hour petrol kiosk about 25 km away, then says he's had a hard day and is turning in. I sit outside the gate, rationing my M&Ms. I look up at the stars, they are so clear and near. It is 8pm.

Back on the road, I do everything by feel. I can't see my speed nor distance. The luminous dials of my watch are barely visible. Just as well I don't need map or compass, there are junctions but there's only one highway. I keep the thin white line on my left, after seeing some construction debris on the left of the line. Once in a while, I veer off course and end up on the dirt/grass, when I lose sight of the line. My drive train is fed up. It shifts by itself or is sometimes delayed reaction. I make it to Noonamah Tavern. This isn't the 24-hour petrol kiosk. I am the last customer, 5 minutes before closing at 10 pm. I grab a Coke and a Mars bar, and eat beneath a light which is swarming with insects. One of which flies into my eye.

I finally make it to the petrol kiosk. "I'm so glad to see you," I say to the counter staff.  I've no appetite, the thought of food makes me feel sick but I force myself to eat a cold sandwich and save the rest for later. And chocolate milk.

In the dark, unbroken white line is life line. Broken line, broken body

My new rear blinker fails to blink. I put the other one on my handlebar so I can keep an eye on it. If it fails, I'd have to do roadside repair. I already feel sick in the stomach, perhaps too much junk food or isotonic drink. Please, no puncture no chain break! It is too dark. If I break down, will anyone going at 130 km/h stop? Traffic gives me a one-lane berth. It is safer at night; adriver who sees no light ahead in the blackness assumes the other lane is clear. Some approaching drivers dip their lights when they see me, helping me keep my night sight. Otherwise, I tilt my head down so the rim of my helmet blocks out the glare.

I've made it so far partly because of a phrase C once said to me: "Suck it up". So, ration M&Ms for "dinner"? Suck it up. Cramps, can't even walk? Suck it up. Do I see fluorescent lights ahead? No, just stars over the tree tops. Suck it up! 

Goodbye sunshine

I ignore the pain in my butt and legs, this is second wind. There are lightning flashes in the cool night air. Water drips on my leg. At first, I think it is rain, but when I reach my room at 1 am and it is still "drizzling", I realise it is my sweat. I do laundry and check my bicycle. It's past 2am. Well, last night it was 3 am before I went to bed so there is progress.

Now I know why Aussies swipe the podium finishes at Tour de Timor and other local races. The distances are vast and there are few creature comforts on the road. How can a journey that's supposed to take 10 hours (five there and five back) end up as 10 hours to get there? Head wind doesn't show on maps. The hills near Adelaide River take their toll too. 18 hours in those conditions. And how did I do the return leg in 8 hours? Extreme. 

Whatever for

Hello sunshine

Day 4, 18 Apr: Darwin, 65 km. I wake up groggy. For the past few consecutive days, I've had just 4-6 hours of sleep - troubled sleep.

While I was planning the trip, I thought of cycling on the Arnhem Highway. Today, I think Arnhem might be a bridge too far. I've got a plane to catch today and I'm really tired. My calf cramps when I massage it. So I meander about town today, like a leaf tossed about in the wind. I intend to log 145 km today. My goal of "go away or go crazy" has two deliverables: to forget and to cover 500 km. Because of my dreams, "to forget" has not been achieved. So I pump up my tyre, lubricate my chain and buckle my shoes tight - mechanical advantage to compensate for muscle and other "internal" damage.

Lunch comprises energy gel and water on a park bench, as the food places I passed were closed. Some km later, I am in a fish and chips shop. Air-conditioned too. And Coke.

In mid-afternoon, I sit on a bench at Charles Darwin University. I want to lie down and sleep, I'm so tired. My body hurts. My heart is heavy. Another 80 km to go? Whatever for? So what if I cover 500 km? Enough already. So I head back to my room, to prepare for my trip home and get some rest, to be ready for work.

Primary goal of "forget": failed. Secondary goal of "500 km": failed. But I learnt some things after a ride on a very dark side:
a. Simple pleasures of a clean, quiet room, clean clothes and a cold shower after a hot day and 18 hours on the road.
b . I'm made of water. All humans are. Water can be hard, like ice. Sure, I've cycled further than 244 km before. But that longer distance was not on fat knobby tyres and not while carrying a load. Water can be soft, like dew. To stop cycling after 65 km, because it is pointless? I whinge about being a wimp, but to cover an average of 140 km per day isn't bad. Especially on knobbies, with hills, headwind and hunger. And fat tyres - and Racing Ralphs they are not.
c. How important kindness is. The stranger on a motorbike who dipped his head light and gave me an encouraging honk in the dark. The gal at the petrol kiosk who gave me the same "package price" on a combo of food in lieu of what was out of stock. These cost you hardly any effort, but they made a difference to a stranger in a strange land. Thank you. Thank God.

Epilogue
20 May: a month later, I've regretted not cycling 500 km. Sure I was in pain, in body and soul. But, pain is temporary. Giving up, failing, is permanent. Lesson learnt.

griefk

Right as rain?

Woodlands, 59 km. So, the bad news has been delivered twice, over two consecutive weeks, with me at the receiving end on both occasions.

When it stops raining, I cycle. Barely 1 km later, torrential rain falls. Bah. I stew in my juice at a block of flats. I tweak my rear derailleur until I'm satisfied. Ah, the pleasure of hearing a soft click instead of loud clunk when the gear shifts.

And I get to ride today despite the rain. It feels great to be able to slice through the air, with cool mist shrouding me. Even the spray from my fat tyres is part of the pleasure. To be able to move, to have freedom, is great.

The weather, like life, can change so fast. Scorching hot in the morn and noon, then dark clouds swoop in and engulf the blue sky. But the sun will shine again. Or perhaps, it's already shining somewhere you're not looking?

PS: only 1 close call on the road today.

It never rains, but pours

I wilt but I stand

Woodlands, 56 km. It never rains, but pours. One piece of bad news last week, then even worse news this week.

The physical pouring rain stops. I head north, to the end of the former railway line. The metaphorical rain continues. I am at the end of my tether, my stomach is knotted. For the first time ever, I have to make an emergency stop to recover.

My rear derailleur shifts erratically. It feels ok when I use the middle and small chain rings. Then, I shift to the big chain ring and it's as if I've one sprocket less. I've commited to memory how both rear derailleur adjustment screws and barrel adjuster adjust. I stop at a carpark and adjust till it seems ok.

On the road today, five drivers play "chicken" with me.  Four of them blink, perhaps because of my blinking lights, one of which is a red skull with flashing eyes. The fifth driver overtakes me, swerves into my way and cuts me off without a care in the world.