Beauty in a singular form.

5 Minutes, 9 Seconds
We're flooded with memories of rides. Even a ride that's less than a mile can be memorable.

by Bill Strickland

As I crest the peak of my driveway, I happen to look down and see my watch in the recessed slice of wrist between glove and jacket. It’s 8:37 a.m. I let the bike start its coast down toward the road. I look right, up Fifth Street, and see a solitary car coming fast, headlights on, that shooshing, somehow wet-sounding traffic noise running ahead of the object making it. I brake and come to a standstill at the spot where three years ago I dumped a Merckx track bike in the lawn.
I’d built the Merckx up at home and, instead of loading it on the roof rack for nine-tenths of a mile, I figured I’d just ride it to work the next morning, either sitting on the gear all the way down the half-mile drop into Emmaus, or else trusting my legs to handle the 140 or so revs per minute I guessed I’d need to get the 48x16 to the bottom. I wasn’t smart enough to factor traffic into my plan, which naturally meant it was there, and by the time I saw the cars in both lanes I was over the hump in my driveway and already doing 80-something rpm. Lacking the hipster skill of skidding a fixie, I’d shown up for work that day with grass stains on my knees, thighs, shoulder, forearms and eyelids. I was happy to have them.
The car goes by, barely blue, a little rusty, rattling. I roll down into the road then past Fairview Street. I used to take the left, laying my bike over hard, holding as much speed as I could through the corner so I could coast across the length of the flat block before turning down again on Sixth so that, if I was lucky and there was no train and I also caught the green at Main — and I didn’t mind the indignity of doing the final moments of my commute in an aero tuck at 6 mph — I might fulfill a dream I had of going from my driveway to work without taking a single pedal stroke. Then one day I did it, and thought: Now what — I start keeping track and end up being the guy who recites his ratio of all-coast commutes to people at parties? When Voltaire was asked if he wanted to return to a brothel, he said, “Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.” I go straight these days, savoring the freewheeling speed but not ruled by it.
The Broad Street Saloon and Hotel sits dark and quiet at the base of the hill. Something in the blankness of the windows on the first floor, some quality I’ve never been able to identify, unmistakably tells you the bar is not closed but abandoned. Up on the second and third stories, in the apartments still alive with silhouettes and loud televisions, is where the high-school kid got shot.
I stop at the sign on Sixth, turn right and see the art-deco streak of a train blockading the road ahead. The blue car is sitting at the crossing guard, a white haze from its tailpipe layered over the yellow and brown and silver blur of the train. I level my feet, coast again. When I am beside the car, I swing over and hop the curb onto the sidewalk, then put my left foot down and ratchet the right pedal around with my toe so my foot is ready for a downstroke. This close, you don’t watch a train. You absorb it: its wind, its burnt metal smell, the tremor of the creaking rails traveling under the surface of the asphalt and cement into the sole of my shoe.
I turn my head and look back. The lady in the blue car, my age but going slack and fat fast, is watching me. I’m in a gray wool Predictor-Lotto watch cap, Assos winter jacket, jeans, five-year-old Medium shoes, Brooks leather pants clip, Castelli gloves, custom ReLoad messenger bag, on a Swobo Dixon with a Campy Record seatpost I installed because I prize contrast. She sees a DUI rider maybe, a terminal bus-boy, some money-poor soul on the way to a spiritually poorer job. Or she sees the train because, like most drivers, she sees nothing when she looks at me.
The train is gone. The stub of the guardrail that blocks the sidewalk starts to cantilever down, and I pedal around and past it, then over the groaning rails. A woman a little older than me got run over by a locomotive pulling a hundred cars, just a few weeks ago, right here where I’m riding. Someone said she was chasing her black lab.
The light at Main is red. I trackstand for one, two, three seconds and am about to abandon when, from my spot at the far right side of the lane I see the signal go yellow for cross traffic, see that the road is open, and jump the green. I pedal across Main, beside the coin-op laundry, and see a pink stuffed bunny lying face-down in the road. It’s the size of a fist, as pink as the morning is cold, crisp and sharp against the bleary pavement. I’m past it before I realize I want to stop and pick it up. I turn my head as I ride, and I watch the right front wheel of the blue car run over the bunny.
Inertia carries me into the parking lot, and once I’m there I pedal to the loading dock, get off my bike and stick my arm through its frame and scale the metal-mesh steps then swipe my security card to unlock the door. It’s 8:42:09. Sometimes five minutes and nine seconds are five minutes and nine seconds, but sometimes a dumb stuffed pink bunny stretches the little time we have on our bikes beyond reason, and our shortest and simplest rides become a memory we will have until we have no memory.

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The essence of riding indeed.

~Crest1 out

Shit happens.

Said I was gonna fix the flatted tyre today, didn't I? Realized that the valve adaptor I use was lost on Saturday. Probably fell out of the seatbag when I was placing my phone inside to save it from the rain. So shit. Can't check for leaks in the old tube, and definitely won't bother fixing the tyre now since I can't pump up the tube anyway. My dad MAY drop down to Gilbert's today to get the adaptor and some spare tubes [what with 2 flats in a single month, I'm running kinda short]. MAY meaning if he's in a good mood. Shit.

Yesterday's violin session was real fun. Played all the uber-fun pieces and didn't even touch duets. Really despise duets...especially the modern pieces. Using cranky, disjointed rhythms and transformations that sound out of place ain't modern or hip. Spamming weird performance directions needlessly isn't exactly an act of genius either. It's fucking disgusting.

Currently attempting Menuetto and trying to master the 2nd violin for Canon in D major. Canon is real fun, but I take the notes too fast. And I THINK there's 2 climaxes, but can't really figure the exact timing out. Had to pause yesterday for my teacher to catch up; apparently he was 5 bars behind me. =.=''

~Crest1 out

Oscillations of the past.

That's one sad picture. To my cycling buddies, most of you already know the connotation behind it. But for those who don't...I'm gonna painstakingly explain it all so you can share my pain. [Or, alternatively, laugh at my absurdly bad luck.]

Decided to go for a short ride of around 15km after I'd finished my geography revision. I was sick to death of MNCs, TNCs and Rostow's model anyway. Time? 5.50p.m.

6.00pm: Coast into Telok Kurau park. Sprinted 'round the perimeter of the playground for fun. Terrorized the neighbourhood kids on their bikes in the process.

6.10pm: Spinning slowly along in low gear toward Marine Parade along Siglap Park connector. Tyres are practically singing. No anomalous sounds from bike whatsoever.

6.15pm: Reached East Coast Park. Shifted up one gear and headed for Bedok Jetty.

6.17pm: Hit the crest of the mini-hill beside the 2nd pond. Slight whizzing sound detected from rear tyre.

6.20pm: Reached Bedok Jetty. Checked rear tyre pressure. Almost FLAT. Remembered that cheapskate parents refused to pay for portable pump. Swore under my breath. Decided to attempt to ride back to Car Park C area since the bike shop at Car Park F is run by a bunch of fucktards who tried to scam the heck out of me the last time I wen there for repairs.

6.23pm: Reached the 2nd pond. Rear tyre totally flat. Rim grinding over the tarmac. Almost ejected from the seat by going over a small rock. Dismounted, shouldered the bike and walked the rest of the way.

6.32pm: Reached Kit Runners bike rental. My pal, their mechanic, wasn't there so I had to ask the counter staff for a favour. In short, "Please let me use your air pump for free! Please?" Pumped up rear tyre. Air was leaking FAST. Hightailed it back home.

6.50pm: Reached Telok Kurau Park. Rear tyre flatter than week-old roadkill. Picked up the stupid bike and ran the rest of the way home.

7.00pm: Reached home. Removed rear wheel. Pried off rear tyre and extricated inner tube. No obvious holes or tears to be seen. WTF. Left the entire sad assembly as it was. Will probably tackle it on Wednesday.

~Crest1 out

Fulfilled obligations.

I griped about tackling 2 rainy rides' worth of accumulated gunk, dirt, and sand on my bike, didn't I? Well, good news is that I actually gritted my teeth and did the washing, cleaning, degreasing and lubrication all at ONE SHOT. End result? Transformed a bike caked in mud and leaves with sand-riddled tyres to boot---to this. It's an old frame, but the WD40 still manages to give it a certain gloss. Decent job really.

Thing is, as I was getting down to actually washing the bike, I started thinking. Y'know, about how I've felt this initial reluctance before; it always turned out pretty good when I actually forced myself to get down to whatever it was that I dreaded. Same here. Soon as I started making some headway against all that road gunk--approximately 10 minutes of hard scrubbing--I realized I was feeling slightly more enthusiastic about the entire undertaking. By the time I'd gotten around to cleaning the chain, I was humming my violin pieces. [Canon in D Major is my personal favourite.] Call it quirky and all, but that's what I am on and around bikes. My associates tell me I'm a totally different person on rides; I'm usually the one initiating those crazy maneuvers to break up the opponents and get our race clincher to the front. I personally don't believe them 'cuz they're equally crazy even when off the bike. But anyway. Off-topic.

It struck me that this personal quandary of mine--basically, to clean or not to clean--was a decent reflection of quite a large part of my life. I'm usually the one who can't seem to get himself to finish off the task once and for all; it's something like denying its existence, really. Majorly futile game of denial, though. Crap. Is the truth of it simply that I should simply hunker down and clear any task I detest first of all? Or perhaps the truth's not so literal. But hell. Before I attempt a Socrates, I should really go wash all the WD40 degreaser off my hands.

~Crest1 out

Catharsis in multiples.

Hellish day. Not to mention a screwed-up week. But Friday and Saturday morning were, undoubtedly, the highlights.

Friday.

Lessons as usual. Ended school and remembered that there was no training 'cos Coach had an away game with the A Division team. Arranged to hit the weights room with Daniel. Constructive use of time, no?

But.

Ended up playing basketball with Tony and the 4E gang until like 4pm. Highlight of the game was Shui Kun's three-pointers---he makes them more like one-handed midcourt shots. Not only do they reach the basket...a sizable percentage of them went in. Disgusting kid. He wasn't even affected by Darren Toh's "superior athletic ability" rhetoric.We couldn't make any layups 'cos Fabian Lim aka bian had set up camp in his own half. Note: Fabian does not attempt to block your layup or shot. He blocks your face. End result: You can't see. GAME OVER.

Following that, I called Daniel to apologize and found out he'd left. Well. Ended up going to weights with none other than Cloud. ROFL. He kept going on about how weak he was and so on until I cracked up. Pretty much awesome session though because all the trackers had left and the whole room was just damned quiet as hell. Ended up leaving just before the room closed; realised painfully that my knee was threatening to go on strike. Hopped one-legged out of SALT centre and got my mum to pick me up. Shit.

Saturday.

Decided to forgo riding the west-side loop with the guys 'cuz I'm damned sick of RT's agenda. He basically just plans out the route and latches on to draft us all the way to RGS so his stead won't see him all sweaty. After a while, it's just not funny. He's using the rest of the guys. And we can't do anything about it because he plans the routes for that area. This goes on any farther, we might as well get him a taxi every Saturday, stuff his bike inside, and pass him the requisite fare. He'll arrive even fresher and earlier to boot. I'm past caring anyway. They can go ahead and be his goddamn drafting express. I'm not entertaining him.

Anyhow, I ended up doing my East Coast Park-Changi loop again. Kinda enjoy this route since there's truckloads of cycling groups hitting the road around my time window [7.30-9.00am]. Ended up overtaking this angmoh rider at Bedok Jetty and he wasn't happy. Sprinted in front of me to set the pace. I thought, hell, he wants to be blocking the headwinds at the SAFRA stretch for me, great. I drafted him all the way to SAFRA Tanah Merah, where we parted ways; he seemed pretty happy to have given me a free ride too. Did my usual time trial down Changi Coastal Rd: lousy thing was that near the end zone, I didn't see this rather large branch in my path. The bike bucked, I nearly did a front-wheelie and my water bottle got ejected from the cage. Lost my entire water supply to the flora lining the road when the bottle lid was dislodged. Awesome thing was, on the way back, I got caught in a major downpour 1km after SAFRA. Had to stop and rig up the waterproof cover on my seatbag so my phone wouldn't drown. Saddling up, this pack of angmoh cyclists in a paceline passed me and I just latched on. I was past caring whether they actually minded me drafting or not; it was the fastest way home anyway. Turns out they didn't mind as long as I took my turn at the front to buck the wind, and we ended up making pretty good time back to McDonalds. Took the park connector home and squeezed approximately 500ml of water outta my jersey and shorts. The bike's in a total mess. Mud spray all over the frames and brakes. Grit on the dropouts. I'm dreading the cleaning and maintenance later.

~Crest1 out

Mixed Sentiments.

For those of you who are slightly more savvy with regards to the world of pro cycling, here's a classic finish photo from velonews.com. That's Tom Boonen of the Quick-Step team in the blue jersey; he's just dominated Fabian Cancellara [left, background] and Alessandro Ballan [right, background] of teams CSC and Lampre respectively at the Paris-Roubaix race. Incidentally, Paris Roubaix is one of the classic races, having been held 106 times with some disruptions due to WW2 and so on. For those of you who didn't know, Boonen is the world's top sprinter these days; leave it to a neck and neck finish and he's bound to come out on top. So that's world-class sprinting for you. Look at the size of his freakin' legs. Christ.






But that's 'nuff about Boonen and the rest of those rich-as-hell, training-every-day-with-hotshot-SPONSORED-bikes pro riders. On to the local scene.

If you haven't read my previous post, here's an update. I wrote saying that our team was having a sprinter selection ride on Saturday, didn't I? It's basically the Upp Changi-->Geylang-->Kallang-->Ophir-->Bukit Timah Rd-->Steven Rd-->Anderson Rd [RGS]-->Orchard Rd loop with us linking back to Sims Ave for a slow ride back. Sprint was at Anderson Rd; sprinters took off at the entrance to Raffles' Girls School. It was me vs 2 of the new guys; turns out the rest of the team had completed the selection already when I was in BJ and we were vying for that one last spot. RT was supposed to be in the mix too; but guess what? He claimed mechanical issues and turned into RGS to 'sort things out'. WOW. As if that ain't obvious.

Note to RT: No matter how oxygen-deprived our brains are, my friend, no one can miss the fact that your weekly route [and all other routes planned by you] seem to be nothing but an accelerated orbit around the RG campus. Get creative, dude.

The results of the sprint, though, were intriguing. I came out ahead of those 2 guys, but not by much. Turns out they brokered a deal; one would go all out as a leadoff man to pull his mate down the first half of the route, and that'd leave him free to challenge me with a hideous amount of energy in reserve. Almost worked; that spunky [but cheating!] bugger got beaten by roughly half a second. So I'm gonna be one of the main guys for our race season in 2008. And kudos to our new teammates: Seems you guys are fostering camarederie amongst yourselves already. And, might I add, at least one promising time-trialler. =)

So that's it for this week. Next post, though, should be an interesting nugget to chew upon: I'll be composing an open letter to SACA entitled <> Sounds like a mouthful, huh.

~Crest1 out

That momentary freewheeling.

Sprint training starts this weekend. I'm feeling the pressure. If I still can't sprint decently, it's curtains for my racing this year; I'll be in a support role all the way. Don't actually mind since the team has a few good sprinters this year who could possibly win something; nevertheless, I'll have to give it a shot. Route apparently is an 80% ride down Stevens Rd to the intersection after YMCA; sprinters will take off at the entrance to the slip-road behind RGS. It's a slightly uphill course with a slight turn before coming up at Orchard Rd; it happens to be a route I've traipsed upon dozens of times. So well, I guess I've got no excuses then. Wish me all the best.

P.S. RT is a goddamn liar...he chose that route 'cos he wants to see you-know-who again ROFL. Hell, you'd think he coulda made it less obvious...

~Crest1 out

Hitting the brakes.

It seems I've hit a mental block as of late. Inspiration for impromptu prose no longer comes easy; my motivation, my drive also seems to have decided I can go it alone. But well. On to the more pertinent issues.

Training is hitting a constant; due to NAPFA tests looming, I haven't dared to push the limits during my rides. Result? Improvement and recovery to full fitness have doubtless come to a standstill. I still can't sprint for nuts and my overall tempo is still slightly on the dismal side. But on the other hand, flexibility's improving. Lower back doesn't hurt as much on my 40-km rides now, and mosta the time the pain is just another stimulant for me to start sprinting anyway [sprinting outta the saddle is akin to a good vertebra stretch]. Will resume intensity training this weekend though...I really can't bear to mosey around like a slowpoke anymore. Boring crap.

It is laughable, though, that my knee injury has of late been the butt of several rather quirky jokes, or attempts at jokes. The latest, and weirdest one, went something like this:

David: *straps on knee support in class. Geog teacher drones on in background*

JeR: *looks at offending knee with nonplussed expression* What the f*** you doing?

David: Err...that's a knee support? It's kinda like, for injuries?

JeR: *contemplates the sheer gravity of the previous statement*

JeR: Are you a jeanhui?

David: .............................................

Last I checked, jeanhui was a person's name. -.- That means it's used as a noun, but it appears that JeR has, in this case, managed to transform this into a phrase of action, or a verb [is it verb?] Well, well.

Note: Mine's a wear-and-tear thing with regard to the kneecap itself. Jeanhui's 'un is something to do with the tendons, if I'm not wrong. That bust-up will heal. Mine won't. Reality check.

Further note: In case you haven't figured this out yet, I'm bored. That;s why this post doesn;t seem to have any concrete direction whatsoever. But hell. Next time, I'll be publishing my thesis on Lim Dao Yi. So stay tuned. I guarantee a pretty much entertaining read. =)

~Crest1 out [kudos to JeR for the new nick]