musings from the peloton.

Transitional contemplation.

2008-06-26T21:55:00.001+08:00

I guess I should make it official.

Maybe you might've guessed. Maybe not.

I've moved, guys.

www.xanga.com/Crest1_E2

The new blog won't be totally personal; I'll use it as a kind of update portal for Team E2 Cyclists as well. Makes the archiving of pics and data an' all easier that way, I guess.

I'll miss this blog though. Really.

Ride safe. Tailwinds always.

Crest1's signing off on blogspot.~

Disquieting thoughts.

2008-06-19T10:36:00.002+08:00

I was eating breakfast today. With a can of something in my hand. I think it was a Coke.

I was mulling over some unresolved issues. Recent ones.

I looked up.

The can had been crushed.

My hand was bleeding. Guess I crushed it.

There's something seriously, seriously wrong with me.

Ride fast, ride safe.
~Crest1 out

That occasional tailwind.

2008-06-12T11:06:00.002+08:00

Feeling insipid, uninspired, and at odds with the world, I've decided to post an uncut, blow-by-blow account of whatever was going through my head during my Thursday ride today. [I call it a Thursday ride because Thursdays are the days upon which my weekly riding performance peaks. Incidentally, it also takes place on Thursdays.] It's pretty much raw and ugly, so do feel free to laugh and lambast me for my lack of quality-control on this piece.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gate creaks open, and I haul my ride out the door, over my dad's silent Altis, and the tarmac before my eyes opens into a new vista, infinite possibilities, conveyed to me in a language no layman will comprehend. Hitting the road, I crunch into the low gears, spinning them out and downshifting, upshifting, clicking through the gears, just for the heck of it, to feel my derailleur's subtleties, to hear the reassuring clack of the well-adjusted drivetrain, to know that mechanically, my ride is sound and there is no way in hell anything can stop this from being the ride of my life. And the formalities complete, I shift back up the cassette into the low cogs, and I spin once more at the mind-numbing pace of 100rpms.

I hit the park, a tiny oasis of greenery and laughter and mirth in an otherwise sleepy, brooding part of the neighbourhood. Turning into the park connector, I dodge two prams, an elderly lady and her umbrella; I mentally lambast her lack of umbrella-handling acumen as I swerve past her outstretched implement threatening to force an untimely dismount. I hit the first in a series of speed bumps; why NParks ever decided speed bumps were neccessary on a footpath used by only cyclists and pedestrians constantly baffles me. Granted, the world record for top speed achieved on any human-powered machine is 81mph---on a roadie of course---but anyone smart enough to train to that kinda level would also recognize that power levels worthy of a petrol-guzzling engine at fifth gear don't exactly belong on a park connector meant to promote space-sharing between cyclists and pedestrians. Strangely enough, at this point I begin to wonder how I can ever get anywhere near that kinda level of power output. In fact, the momentary distraction is near catastrophic; I narrowly miss a collision with another old age pensioner walking in the oppo direction. I know the guy; he saunters about the neighbourhood trying to look miserable all day. Sometimes, I suspect that the reason he never seems to make way for cyclists like me is that he's too preoccupied maintaining that hangdog look to notice me. The traffic intersection's coming up; I see the green man flashing at me, goading me to try that sprint. It's 70 meters across cobbled ground in 13...12...I downshift and crank my way through. I get across with excess seconds on the clock; I don't bother to check on 'em though. The entrance to the next connecting section is a tricky one; large gap in the asphalt threatening a pinch flat and 10 meters down, a random protrusion in the road surface which very nearly flung me off my bike a week earlier. Loosening up, I rise into the descending position and pick my line through the gap; there're only three lines over it that don't endanger the inner tube's integrity. Hitting the protrusion, my bike rises and I rise with it, knees flexed, arse suspended over the saddle, torso and arms loose with just a subtle nudge to maintain my steering line. I mentally remind myself of the importance of such 'body english'; aluminium, when faced with the rigours of uneven and brutal sections of road, is punishing on both rider and wheels. Busted wheels'd set me back $380; a busted back, far more. I grin to myself, feeling the morning stiffness seeping out of my legs; upshifting, I spin once more, relishing the slow burning in the lungs as my body goes aerobic.

Another traffic intersection looms; the green man lights up bang on time and I cruise through the remaining length of the connector, over the Siglap canal and to the foot of the bridge. It's one of those with a sloping path instead of stairs; yet another well-intended yet sadly isolated attempt to integrate cyclists into the footpaths. I hit the top of the bridge and glance over the ECP to look upon yet another typical morning at the East Coast; the multitudes of senior citizens practicing martial arts to the tune of scratchy cassettes and CDs; the throngs of teenagers out for a day at the beach and the omnipresent men manning the rental bike stores looking on disinterestedly; this early in the morning, not many people want to be pedaling around yet. I reach the park and clip in, the mechanical click of the Look pedals obscured by a rousing martial tune from the CD player a particularly large group of senior citizens are using to set the rhythm for their tai-chi routines. I see them practically every week; still, most of them stare at me a good deal every time I go riding at the coast. I settle into a rhythm myself, spinning along in the third-largest cog; I turn onto the straight stretch outside White Sands resort and downshift two cogs, using the lower cadence to monitor my pedal technique. I pass the spot where, a year ago, I'd hovered on the brink of taking down a cyclist; this particular character had been attempting to ride no-hands, swerving all over the bike lane like a drunken ass and blocking the rest of the cyclists behind him. My problem hadn't been that exactly; the fact that he'd been doing such a thing on a busy, congested Saturday evening was. I wondered why he hadn't yet realized the idiocy of his ways; then I realized he was too busy entertaining the two girls he was riding with. Neither of 'em looked like they could keep a straight line of travel either. I'd glanced at the time, measured him up, and decided that if I came abreast of him on the Area F hill and nudged his front wheel, he'd be enjoying some quality time off the bike to contemplate his abject lack of bike handling abilities. I'd figured he'd take his companions down with him too; even if he didn't, they'd never catch me once I got over the hill. And just as I'd been shifting into the smaller cogs to maneouvre into position, the right lane had opened up for a few blissful seconds. Seizing the opportunity, I'd simply surged right past him, my thoughts of initiating his involuntary penance left in the wake of my acceleration.

As I upshift one cog, I silently laugh at the memory of my near attempt at inflicting wholesale injury upon said rider; though I'd rarely contemplate such a thing nowadays, recreational cyclists with skill and intelligence levels identical to his seem to have proliferated. I ponder this as I reach the tiny hill nestled behind the first pond at Area C; it's such a gentle grade that I don't bother upshifting. The crest of this particular hill, if you can call it that, is nestled within that strip of forested area formerly known as the Bird Sanctuary; it's a pretty pensive spot. Minimal light thanks to the subtantial canopy, the trees shutting out extraneous noises; it's a kinda haven of sorts right before one of the more challenging sections of my ride. I roll down the hill and sweep into the gently arcing left turn, taking my hands off the brake hoods and settling into the drops. Ahead of me is a gently rolling stretch leading to the new food centre near Area F; being open to the seafront, it's constantly plagued by consistently troublesome sidewinds and occasionally daunting headwinds. Today is no exception; I flatten my profile and up the pace, settling into time-trial mode, relishing the mounting furnace in my legs; on the short climb at the end of the stretch, I pass 2 roadies. One looks to be well on his way to the golden years; the other, in his late thirties. Both are chattering animatedly with each other, their bodies and pedal strokes relaxed in a way that tell me they have lapsed into the inanity of the conversation; they're simply out to enjoy their bikes, the beautiful day, and they can't for the life of them understand why people like me spend such a fine morning bent double on the dropbars, sweating like a pig with snot and dribble from sheer exertion plastered over my face and top tube. I grunt a hello and zip past them; they smile and nod, the same wordless demeanour as that bestowed upon a raving lunatic. Inwardly, I cringe; I enquire of myself the purpose behind this irrational need to force my body into an abyss of mounting, sustained pain three times a week. And then I'm through the 90-degree turn with the hawker centre behind me, with the road opening up once more; I stand on the pedals and spin out the gear and shift forward on the saddle and grasp the drops and blank out my mind; thus all I need to know is that there is only one hill and one bridge before the flat run to Changi, and I spin and I crank forward, resolutely and without emotion, with the world around me blurring, condensing until the road, that undulating strip of asphalt laced with a conduit of my stories across it, each individual blemish and gravel chunk resonating in tune to various indelible portions of my subconscious, is all that remains. And that's all I need.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once again, I must express my profound gratitude to all who put up with my incoherent, rambling musings to attempt to grasp the gist of this posting. My apologies for the abrupt end to the narrative [if it's worthy of such a title]; my Thursday rides are usually a time trial by the time I get to Area F, meaning my mind remains totally blank with no function remaining except to breathe, crank pedals, and hydrate. When I roll home, I usually haven't yet recovered from the haze of fatigue hanging over me; thus, extraneous mental activity such as thinking would be out of the question.

Tailwinds always.
~Crest1 out

Fluctuating nuances.

2008-06-06T21:05:00.003+08:00

I was just doing a spot of thinking this night. Evaluating, for example, why I was sitting at home chewing morosely upon crusty, equally deflated pizza on a perfectly good Friday night. Then it hit me. I'm just doing what's reflexive---whiling away the perceived excess in hours, minutes, seconds. But was that justifiable? I realize, even in the few vacuoles granted us between the merciless stampede of everyday tasks, expectations, goals, there are undertakings, ideas, available for us to turn over in our mental turmoil. I proceed to pluck issues from the cerebral haze at random. My academic progress. That special someone. My bike racing season. Softball. My laptop's ever-shrinking volume of data storage. How to get the fresh pizza stains off my shirt.

I turn each of these virtual items over, allowing myself a godlike distancing from it. I assess options, viability, opportunities and disadvantages along with possible repercussions/risks. And I realize. What seemed an insurmountable issue or a crossroads of indecision could be coerced into presenting several differing, clear-cut lines of action. I remind myself once more of the options regarding each one, the individual risks and potential behind each.

Idly, I reach out and spin the rear wheel of my bike. It's propped upside down, allowing me easy access for cleaning and servicing. The freewheel kicks in, the melancholy clicking of the ratchet punctuating the oppressive silence. The clicking never wavers in pitch or volume; precision engineering within the sealed hub bearings ensures a semblance of uniformity as such. But, all too suddenly, the consistent clicks slow, and halt altogether. The ratcheting of the freewheel is but an illusion of consistency, longevity in a sense. Just as one believes the entrancing rhythm will persist indefinitely, the linear nature of time proffers a reality check.

I remain seated, stunned by the profoundity of the moment. In that minute frame of time and space, I realize the striking similarity of my life's issues and goals to the absurd paradox of the freewheel. I may continuously ponder, reaffirm, and polish my options; yet, beneath the glistening veneer of the entire thought process, the smoldering truth is that I am yet to commit to a course of action, that, while the decisions required on these matters seem to possess indefinite grace periods, the end will inevitably arrive, as insidiously and swiftly as the victory of frictional forces over the smooth, persistent motion of the freewheel. When the crunchtime finally arrives, it will come with haste. I need to be ready. I'm running outta time. And that means I gotta go get these pizza sauce stains off my shirt now.

I thought it pretty appropriate to append below another essay by Bill Strickland, executive editor of Bicycling Magazine and one of the finest prose-crafters in the cycling industry. It's almost a lyrical work I find. Enjoy.

Out of Time
by Bill Strickland
We spin, 87 of us, tight down to the elbows and handlebars, clicking up and down gears more to hear the sound than to find the right cadence. We spin around the course, one-mile long, 23-feet-8-inches wide, black going gray, and at the back we talk about books, and other races, training plans, Tom Boonen, the weather. Sunlight is flowing down thick over us like syrup from the open circle of a bottle high up in the sky, adding an extra and unexpected sweetness to this early spring night — a peculiar sense of slowness that is not in any way negative but somehow delicious, perhaps because we are not at all going slow; we are spinning around and around in the twenties, nudging up into the thirties. Pretty soon we stop talking.
I’m sitting my front wheel between a rider from Colavita and one from Rite Aid, and they are spinning and I am spinning and the pack sways left and we sway left and the people behind us sway left, around and around and Colavita and Rite Aid stay at the back so I do, too. When you have the wheel of someone who does not pay for his jersey, you do not have to think.
I don’t even think about not thinking. It is that kind of evening.
Outside of the Thursday Night Crit, life is waiting for us. My lawn mower is waiting for me; it won’t start again. Our state’s presidential primary is a few days away. The puppy needs a haircut tomorrow. I have three deadlines. I haven’t called my mother in two weeks. I keep forgetting to accomplish the monumental task of transporting an expense check from the top of my desk to my home. The weather is about to turn. The car needs gas.
We spin around the loop doing twenty-five, then we spin around it at thirty-one, and we spin and spin and spin, becoming ourselves the amulet that encircles us for this single hour-and-seven minutes of the week. Life is not allowed in here. Only we are.
There are attacks but they come back to the pack. There are bells for sprints and there are sprints, and there is sweat and snot and shouts when two people touch for too long, and there is wheezing, too, and hacking and coughing, and some of us start to regret how little of the life outside this loop we devoted to preparing for what would happen inside the loop. But no one regrets, at least not right now, not at twenty-seven miles per hour, how we have once again pilfered too much time from our lives for riding.
We cross over the finish line but it is not the finish. It feels under this sun and in this pack and on this course like there will never be a finish, but the number on the lap counter has flipped down to single digits. Our hour-and-seven is almost gone. We speed toward its end as happily as we sped away from its beginning, happy for the chance to speed no matter where it leads us. I told you we are not thinking. In two more laps a bell will ring. We will go faster, some of us as fast as we can, others — the good ones — just fast enough, but all of us rushing away from the race that exists only because of the rushing. In six laps, life will be thing that is rushing. In five laps. In four.
The finish line flits under my front wheel, under my back wheel, is gone – which means only that we are spinning toward it once again, whirring and whining and splitting apart the air in front of us faster and faster, lining up and setting up and holding wheels and snorting and swooping like a pack that knows what it’s doing, though we have no idea what we are really doing by sprinting toward the end. We have no idea, because we have been so long out of time, that we are almost out of time.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for bothering to sift through all the painfully disjointed, staid drivel I felt compelled to post.

Ride fast, ride safe. Tailwinds always.

~Crest1 out

Pyrrhic vacation.

2008-06-02T16:32:00.003+08:00

This'll be my first post since getting back from OB Mongolia. Due to the absence of pics, though, you won't be hearing 'bout it for awhile. Suffice to say it was great, as near to the expression "experience of a lifetime" as you could get, and left a rather permanent imprint on my memory. So yeah. More on that some other time.

What's been going on in the past few weeks? Let's see. Training rides Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Softball Monday, Wednesday, Friday. [I realize weights room is EMPTY in the mornings.] Trying to study some to buttress my dismal attempts at academics. Oh, and did I mention 14th SLC finale? There you go. I knew I left out something.

Basically, 30th May. Met CCA at 12 noon and had lunch and proceeded to logs room to hang with Boon Yang [who'd somehow invaded the room and occupied the single computer terminal without being thrown out and such]. Hongliang joined us over lunch too, it turns out. [Meaning I just remembered] We spent some time catching up, and I had the privilege of returning Boon Yang his old S4 pants [which, incidentally, niether I nor he can fit into any longer]. But then again, it brought back the memories. Not an entirely useless gesture.

Following that, I attempted to compensate for the abject lack of sleep following the previous night's ride with ZY [we got chased all the way to Anderson Rd by these 2 Aussie angmohs doing the same loop] and FAILED. No thanks to hongliang. People from the uniformed groups make every conversation seem like an exercise in utilising the PA system. So we sauntered around the concourse some and koped leftovers from the lunch buffet spread. Boring, I know, but it killed enough time. By the time we'd slouched our way into the audi, Dahwei, JeR, Warren, Shufen, Chiaern and Ainslie were there. ZZZ. Sat down for 5 minutes before this OT member flashed this seating plan of theirs on the screen which pointedly told us we weren't exactly seated in the appropriate area. Not that they'd accounted for old facils in the plan, of course, but we worked out for ourselves that no participants would be standing all t'way at the back.

Finale itself was pretty cool. Despite the carry-over of the absurdly inconsiderate practice of abruptly cutting off performances due to time constraints, the guys managing the entire affair were overall competent, I guess. 13th facs are pretty much the same bunch of people despite the one year that's gone by; however, for the sake of having a second opinion on this, I'm shamelessly pirating part of Dahwei's post on a topic very much along the lines of this discussion.

"Jia Wei - LOL, fail dao numb liao. Super poser and still XXXTRA gay la.
Boon Yang - So emo and silent now. Like some vulture (:
Hong Liang, Cai Boi - My niaoing partner LOL. Niaoed everybody.
Jia Kun - HAHAHAHA kena niao until sad la. “Jia Kun, you’re damn sad leh… she never come!”
Ainslie - No specs. Cuter.
Jay - Wtf la this guy never changes one lor.
Jer! - Still dam kawaii and guailan lol.
Desmond - Wah seh, HSC WOR (: Always says the wrong things one… makes himself sound damn scandalous lor haha.
David - What can I say… Never changes as well. Still very very complex. xD
Alison - Looks very different. Haiya, not fat la. :/ What to say? Cute ah?
Elaine - Hey, new hairstyle and look (: but super quiet leh. Wahahaha, should have gone and poked you.
Daryl - Aiya this guy still the darlie we know. So lame lol.
Nigel - Man he likes to poke me. Ass. (:
Yu Quan - Lost his voice hoho.
Chern Yuen - WHY SO SERIOUSSESEESEEES Well done man buddy.
Elizabeth - SORRY I FORGOT YOUR NAME >< Ok la, I’m gay, weird, crazy, poser, emo, antisocial, babyface, funny everything la ok -.- Man… you’re another hyper one. "

Well, well. I do realize some of those names are OT members. But heck. It's late and I'm too lazy for editing. Live with it. [I shall not deign to force a similarly uncultured reply with regard to Dahwei's obvious attempt at sarcasm against my person.]

Bottom line is, 13th SLC facils went out for post-finale dinner at Mad Jack's. Had to rush off early for violin class though...apparently Mr Tan thought class started at 8pm instead of 8.30pm and arrived half an hour early. =.='' My apologies to Elizabeth here, too; I sorta remember you hadn't even gotten your food yet when I dashed off. That must seriously suck. =)

To my cycling buds out there: My apologies for the non cycling-related ramblings. But SLC's one of the few things I try not to forget, so excuse my indiscipline in upkeeping my standard of content here. Alright. Training updates.

Got back from OB Mongolia to find that my bike was in for major mechanicals. Front and back wheels BOTH needed serious attention. Hauled the entire sorry mess down to Cycle Craft and had the guys check it out. Verdict? Both wheels had loose bearings and my headset had actually been in danger of falling off. $20. OUCH. I don't understand. I don't really ride that hard, do I?

Switching to short interval training nowadays, meaning I don't haunt Changi with such regularity anymore. However, I'll be rejoining you guys for the Anderson Rd loop soon, so no worries.

Hell. I'm kinda getting a little sleepy here, so MAYBE I'll wrap up here. Ride fast, ride safe. 'Til the next group ride.

~Crest1 out

Enforced hiatus. Racing updates.

2008-05-07T22:17:00.002+08:00

First up: Crest1 will be heading to the great plains of Outer Mongolia from 9th to 19th May. So, no training updates till the next weekend. And to pre-empt accusations of me refusing to share the trade secrets of the local bike industry by my peers, here's an advanced dose of reality: Those guys still think horses are the pwnt. So....it's remotely possible that they've progressed from making lugged construction frames, and MIGHT have discovered that steel isn't the only way to go in building bikes. But no...don't expect technological advances any further than those.

On the other hand, I'm pretty much pleased to be making an announcement on behalf of E2 Cyclists: We'll be on the roster at the annual Yew Tee CSC Cycling Criterium this year. It'll be pretty awesome and all just to be racing again...to the uninformed, this'll be my first competitive event to mark complete recovery from last year's major injury. So yeah. It's a minor race, we aren't at ideal form yet to be racing it, but we'll be there. It's partially to try out some new team tactics and see how the new guys perform too. In other words, a race of firsts. June 8th. Bricklands Rd. Be there.

~Crest1 out

The neuronic stimulation of the pack.

2008-05-03T20:16:00.002+08:00

Team ride today. We were practically spinning in our seats talking to each other though...we were that slow. But it was fun. And significant. We turned up in full team kit. Rode all the common training routes. Said 'hi' to every roadie we saw [ok that's just random]. Shows something, all right. E2 Cyclists is back on the scene as a team...stronger than ever. Racing's almost over for 2008...but we'll commence training for early 2009. With the new, promising guys, I sense more than just a whiff of silverware.

NOTE: We're still NOT a sponsored team. WAHAHAHA. Independence = pwnt.

Apparently, though, riding as a group can be inspiring to the individual. I'm as yet still unsure as to whether it's the combined effect of multiple body-odour emitters in close proximity or the sheer numbness of fatigue that allow the brain to be driven to such heights of performance, but whatever catalyst it is has inadvertantly allowed a junior member of E2 to come up with the ultimate solution to our local cycling scene's troubles with youth involvement and gender equality. [Which, apparently, several distinguished cyclists heading the Singapore Amateur Cyclists' Association have singularly failed at achieving.] Attached is an excerpt from our post-ride conversation:

J: Y'know, I've been thinking.

Me: Uh-huh.

J: I was thinking, SACA's got it all wrong. *snorts derisively* They're organizing more races to boost the cycling scene when the number of races isn't the real issue at stake.

Me: And what is?

J: Duh. The lack of new talent? How many people take up cycling as a sport when they're youths?

Me: Huh. So what'd you suggest the powers-that-be do to popularize cycling among us jaded young 'uns?

J: Well, most sports, obscure or not, attain popularity through schools. So, we've gotta get schools involved in the scene, like it or not.

Me: *crooks eyebrow* Schools? I can tell you that with CCAs, there's definitely a $$ issue....

J: Exactly: They don't see the value of cycling in enhancing their school image. We've gotta bring in competition.

Me: Competitions without the existence of school cycling groups in the first place? Errr....

J: *light bulb in head flares brightly and fuses out* This is it. SACA could organize a schools' cycling event or something. You know, a one-day race. The schools'd be caught off guard and would simply ask for interested parties. They'd have to participate or lose face. Especially when we've got established schools like yours and mine competing.

Me: Dude...what if they freakin' ignore you?

J: We'd have to get Sports Council and MOE backing of course. Pressurize them into acting.

Me: Well...it sounds like it may work...but how do you develop from there?

J: Well, the next year, schools would be keen to have better representation at such an event, and they'd want to organize teams and such beforehand. And presto! In a few years, we'd have a pretty much vibrant cycling scene amongst schools.

Me: ......How does this actually fit into the problem of us not being able to participate in races 'cos we're an all-guys team? [Note: In early 2008, E2 Cyclists Team was unable to take part in the team category at Punggol due to a requirement for mixed-gender teams.]

J: Well...we'd include a girls' category in the competition, of course. I'm sure there'll be enough female cyclists of our age! And from there, we can recruit some for the next Punggol race!

Me: ........................................................You do know our team has had a bad history when it comes to having female members, right?

J: Wait...was it the one where we got banned from ever entering SNGS? [Due to vested interests in preserving the image of the team, this connotation to an earlier unsavoury event will not be discussed in detail.]

Me: ...............YES...............

J: Oh. Nevermind! I'm sure it won't affect the overall scheme of things, right? But why hasn't SACA thought of this anyway? Hell, I should be the one running SACA...

Me: *slams forehead into nearby wall*

~End of Excerpt~

LOLOLOLOLOL. Idealism, idealism. Seriously. While such a plan might actually work, MOE would never endorse it. Neither would the Sports Council. Point is that cycling doesn't exactly win medals for S'pore. As for female involvement in the sport...ever wonder why there's only one category in local races for women? It's called Women's OPEN by the way. And I've never seen any female road cyclist anywhere near our age range. So fat hope. Seriously.

~Crest1 out

The convulsive fix.

2008-05-02T22:27:00.002+08:00

Couldn't stand waiting around for my dad to get things done, so I went ahead and borrowed my uncle's twin-valve pump. God it freakin' pwns. There's a standard pressure gauge along with 2 valve adaptors for Schrader and Presta valves. No more screwing and unscrewing those piddling little valve adaptors...at least for the time being. And...I FIXED the stupid tyre. Group ride tomorrow. Feels good to be bike-ready again.

Anyway, recap.

Labour Day: My team leader called me up the night before. Apparently, they were gonna spring something big on RT; they'd found out he was heading down to RG again for his Labour Day date. So, figuring he'd be kitted up in full cycling attire, they'd head down there, blockade the gates and yell at him to go join the group ride, embarrassing the crap out of him in the process. Lame idea, but great entertainment value. Lousy thing was that my bike had a FLAT, and I wasn't gonna be able to repair it. Great. So I had to miss the little sting operation, which, I heard, turned out to be a roaring success and a good laugh for all involved, RT included. But, leader tells me that the security down at Raffles' eyeballed 'em real hard and gave him a warning 'bout 'loitering' in the campus, so I guess we'll have to switch jerseys the next time round. Well. Even good jokes come at a price, I guess.

~Crest1 out

Beauty in a singular form.

2008-04-30T18:49:00.001+08:00

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.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The essence of riding indeed.

~Crest1 out

Shit happens.

2008-04-30T10:45:00.002+08:00

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.

2008-04-27T20:21:00.005+08:00

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.

2008-04-26T19:22:00.003+08:00

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.

2008-04-26T13:02:00.000+08:00

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.

2008-04-20T17:08:00.000+08:00

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.

2008-04-17T23:01:00.000+08:00

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.

2008-04-15T22:54:00.000+08:00

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]

Enthu-ness. More cycling essays.

2008-03-30T21:11:00.000+08:00

You guys oughta be grateful I'm actually updating with such zeal, no? Sit back and enjoy. I'll probably do a training update later in the week.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By: Elden Nelson

Copyright The Fat Cyclist

It doesn’t matter whether it’s during a race or a recovery ride. As cyclists, we simply can’t help ourselves. Every time we get near another rider, we must chase them down. And any time we pass another rider, it’s a victory.
Just how much of a victory, however, depends on a number of factors. Fortunately for you, I have created an objective and thoroughly scientific method for determining the value of each cyclist you pass.
The objective of assessing your passing score for each ride is simple: get as many points as you can on any given ride. Equally simple are the basics – each time you pass a rider, you get to add one point to your score.
Of course, it would be ridiculous for you to get the same credit for passing a four-year-old on training wheels as a semi-pro in a time trial tuck. That’s why you must apply the following score adjustments.
And, of course, you must apply these same adjustments in reverse whenever you are passed, subtracting points based on these same factors. Hey, that’s only fair.
Let’s begin, shall we?
Bike Factors
Every cyclist I’ve ever met is confused by the title of Lance Armstrong’s first book, It’s Not About the Bike. “Well, what else could it possibly be about?” we ask. We’re not being argumentative; we simply just never think about anything else. Naturally, then, the bike your opponent – that is, the person you’re passing – rides is a crucial factor in your score:
Expensive Bike: If the person you’re passing has a bike that costs more than 50% more than your bike, give yourself an extra point. If the bike costs more than double your bike’s cost, give yourself two points. Regardless, be certain to comment on what a nice bike the person you’re passing has. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as a backhanded compliment.Misidentified Bike: If you’ve pushed yourself as never before to catch a cyclist on the road, thinking how awesomely fast you’re going to appear as you blow by, only to discover that the person you’re passing is on a mountain bike or a hybrid with frame material that can best be described as "rebar," subtract a point from your score.Silly Bike: If you pass a recumbent, add ten points to your score, as long as you are going 10kph faster – at a bare minimum – than he. Be sure to snort in derision as you go by.
Legs
It’s very nearly creepy how carefully cyclists study one another’s legs. I of course except myself, because I never do this. That said, your passing score relies heavily on the attributes of your opponents legs.
Hair: If the person you pass has shaved legs, give yourself two extra points. If he has shaved legs and you do not, give yourself four extra points, because he’s going to eat his heart out when he sees that he just got passed by what appears to be a Fred.Rookie Mark: If your victim has a chainring mark on his right calf, subtract a point from your score. If he has a chainring mark on his left calf, add two points to your score, but only if you can find out how he managed that trick.Tattoos: If the person you pass has a bike-related tattoo on one or more of his calves, add ten points to your score. You have just defeated someone who identifies so closely with cycling that he is advertising it, permanently. Say “Nice tattoo,” as you go by. You may also want to add, “What is it, exactly?”
Clothing
This one’s tricky. The truth is, many riders will wear a jersey in support of their favorite rider or team, and that doesn’t mean anything. Thus, to assess how many points to give yourself for what the cyclist you’re passing is wearing, you must look at the full package:
Full Kit – By this, I mean everything: helmet, shorts, jersey, socks, gloves. If he’s outfitted like a full-on pro, give yourself seven points. If it turns out that he is a full-on pro, give yourself ten points, unless you stop him and ask for his autograph. In which case you must reset your score back to zero and give up biking forever, because you are shameless.Club Kit – If he’s wearing just the jersey or just the shorts, no point adjustment is made. If wearing both, you should give yourself two points. If the club kit is ridiculously ugly, give yourself three points. This is a judgment call, but I think I can trust you on this. Unless you’re one of those people who design really ugly club kits. If you’ve designed a jersey that is regarded as ugly even by your club, you must start every ride for the rest of your life with a score of -10. You brought it on yourself, man.
What they say
There’s a fair chance that the guy you pass will say something as you go by. This tells you something about how deep the wound has gone – or, in other words, how complete your victory is.
Greeting: A simple “hello” or “How’s it going?” means nothing. Your score does not change.Congratulations: A “Hey, nice climbing” or “Keep it up” means that they – unfortunately – bear you no ill-will. Subtract a point from your score.Excuses: This is the holy grail of passing someone – they are so deeply humiliated by your passing that they want a chance to explain themselves, usually by saying something about being at the tail end of an all-day ride or being told by their coach they must keep their heartrate under 80. When this happens, smile knowingly as you go by, then double your score because I guarantee the person you just passed will be able to think of nothing else for the next 72 hours.
Other Factors
There are a few other miscellaneous factors that affect your passing score. Be certain to make a careful note of each of them.
Gender Misidentification: If you think you’re passing a man and it turns out to be a woman, subtract two points. If you think you’re passing a woman and it turns out to be a man, add three points. Why the inequality? It is not for you to question.Knee In Gut: If the other guy’s knees squash into his gut on each upstroke, you get no points for passing him. Unless your knees squash into your gut, too, in which case you get an extra three points.Re-Pass: If, after passing the other guy, he makes a superhuman effort and passes you again, give yourself an extra two points. This may seem counterintuitive, but this kind of re-passing is your victim’s way of admitting that you have cut him, and cut him deep.No-Pass: If it turns out that the other guy really was just spinning along and is now happy to ride at your pace and chat, and seems capable of riding at your pace and chatting even though you are at your absolute upper limit, and continues doing so until you explode and collapse in a quivering mass on the road, set your score back to -25, for you have just been totally pwned.
Final Results
After each ride, be certain to tally your score and then evaluate yourself on the following scale:
50+ points: You are the stage winner. Puff out your chest. Add this score to your race resume, for it is a magnificent accomplishment.
20 – 49 points: Not a bad ride, but you may want to exaggerate your score when comparing with your friends. Since there’s no way for them to disprove your score, you should feel confident in your “exaggeration.” Hey, you think your friends aren’t “augmenting” their scores, too?
Fewer than 20 points: You may want to consider changing your training route, so as to encounter different riders. After all, it isn’t how you play the game, it’s whether you win or lose.

Elden Nelson blogs most weekdays as The Fat Cyclist, where he posts fake news, fake ideas, and fake insights about things like riding bikes and eating his weight in cheese.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Check out his blog too. Cyclist or not, you'll bloody love it.

Sidenote: To all my cycling associates out there participating in the Changi races, best of luck. My heartfelt apologies for not making it this year. I'll be there next round, guys...and meanwhile, lets meet at Runway Cycling 08, 'kay?

~crestonebiker out

Essays. Training updates can wait.

2008-03-29T23:03:00.000+08:00

Feeling bored today, so I've decided to repost some great cycling essays from 'round the globe. This un's from a touring trip of Taiwan [apparently he's a Chinese-speaking angmoh].

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two Seconds at Sun Moon Lake
By Antonio Graceffo
Copyright © Antonio Graceffo, 2004
Cold, hazy, rainy, gray, stupid, no restaurants, no ATM, No Internet, nothing to look at, nothing to do, no services of any kind, tired, sweaty… After riding my bicycle 180 km I was finally standing in front of Sun Moon Lake. Yipeee!
"Smile and do the victory sign," said the stranger who was taking my photo. The flash went off. He handed me my camera, and gave me the Taiwanese third degree while I stowed it.
"Where do you come from? How many brothers and sisters do you have? Can you use chopsticks? How long have you been in Taiwan? Why do you speak Chinese? Are you a teacher?"
I looked in vain for the printed cards I normally carried with all of the answers.
"Brooklyn, four, yes, two years, because I have to, no, a writer." I blurted out, answering as fast as he had asked.
"Vacation?" he asked.
In the Taiwanese mind there are only two conditions under which a foreigner can come to Taiwan, teaching or vacation. Since I wasn’t a teacher, I must be on vacation.
"No, I’m a writer. I go to different places in Asia, and write stories and take photos for magazines."
"Oh!" He said, with great understanding. "You are on vacation."
Now I looked in vain for my can of pepper spray. I really need to learn to pack my things better.
Why don’t they get it? I have yet to meet even a single Taiwanese person who understands what it is I do for a living. I show them the photos. I show them the magazines. I even show them the websites. And yet, they just nod and say, "Oh, vacation."
"Yeah, vacation." I agreed.
I got on my bike, and began the long journey home. For some time I had suspected that I was a little burned out on the Taiwan experience.
The trouble started four months earlier, when I was planning my trip to cycle all the way around the island. The difficulty I had in buying panniers, gear bags for my bicycle, was so intense that it ended my honeymoon with this island non-nation, and signaled the divorce procedures looming on the horizon. Actually it started even before the panniers. I had gone to every bicycle store in Kaohsiung in a failed attempt to buy toe-clips. Apparently, they sell bicycles in Taiwan, but not components, which really astounded me, since, when I was racing bicycles back in New York, about half my equipment was made in Taiwan.
I went from store to store, first asking, and later begging people to sell me toe-clips. But no dice. They said things like "toe-clips are dangerous." Or "You could fall, and get hurt." This was coming from the same beetle-nut chewing, KTV hanging, Kaoliang drinking, squats when he’s talking, Tai Ke who was riding a scooter at 80 kmh, the wrong way, on a one-way street, with his wife and two kids on the handlebars, none of them wearing a helmet.
First, I insisted that I had years of experience with toe clips. Then, I tried to explain to them that I wasn’t asking their permission to buy. Finally, I said that I would be willing to sign a hold-harmless waiver, saying that I wouldn’t sue them if I were injured in a toe-clip related incident. After all, we know how common personal injury lawsuits are in Taiwan. But they wouldn’t budge.
A web search revealed that Giant Bicycle Corp of Taiwan is the largest bicycle component company in Asia. But, in true Taiwanese fashion, there was no contact information on their website, neither did they publish a directory of store locations. In the end, I resorted to the Taiwanese research method. I asked a friend, who asked a friend, who asked a friend, who, it turned out, knew a guy, whose cousin’s mother’s neighbor had once ridden a bicycle all the way to Seven Eleven. Being that we were both long distance cyclists, practically brothers under the skin, he told me, in the strictest confidence, about the well-hidden, secret Giant Bicycle outlet in Kaohsiung.
Stepping into the aluminum building, the first thing I heard was the puppet show on TV. Several barefoot adults, with that slow inbred look, sat around, with red spittle oozing down their chins, glued to the TV, unaware that there was a huge world outside. I hadn’t been home to America in more than two years, but as far as I could remember, this was the part where the bright-eyed workers, who lived on commission, would come running over and ask if they could help me. Instead, their Taiwanese counterparts took several minutes to even recognize the fact that I was standing there. And when they did, they just shrugged, and shook their head "no."
I hadn’t even asked for anything, and they were already disagreeing. My trip around the island was already getting off to a bad start, and I hadn’t even left yet.
On TV, the Monkey god was just about to throw a fireball of intervention, to save the lives of the star-crossed lovers.
"I need toe-clips for my bicycle." I said, skipping the greeting.
"No!" Shouted the man, who I took to be the owner.
"No, what?" I asked.
"I don’t speak English." He answered, in that heavily accented Mandarin that, after two years, is starting to grate on my eardrums like someone dragging their nails across a blackboard.
"We are speaking Chinese." I pointed out.
There was a long pause, where he looked very confused. Then, an unfamiliar wave of comprehension washed over his weather-beaten face, as he realized that he did understand me.
"I need toe-clips." I repeated.
"No." He said, and pushed several more leaves in his mouth.
"No what? No you don’t have them? Or no, you won’t sell them to me?"
"No."
I was about to do something terrible, when his wife jumped in and saved her husband the humiliation of having his chaw shoved down his throat.
"We don’t have any." She said.
I still wasn’t convinced that my question had even registered. When I asked it, the lights were just coming on, but I didn’t think anyone was home yet.
"Do you know what it is that I want?" I asked.
The wife looked confused.
"Do you know what it is that I want?" I repeated.
"No." She answered in a whisper.
"Then how can you tell me that you don’t have any?"
"Sorry." She said, sounding like a hurt twelve year old.
"I need toe clips."
"We don’t have any." Said the husband.
"This is Giant. You have toe-clips. I don’t care if you have to go to Taipei to get them. I’ll wait." I sat down, and made myself comfortable. I took a book out of my backpack, and began reading.
Slowly, the wife got up, went in the back, and returned two minutes later with toe clips.
"I’ll take them," I said.
She started to put them in a bag.
"No, I want them on my bicycle."
"There are tools over there." She said, pointing at a pile of rusty junk.
"You’re kidding, right? I want your husband to put them on."
Painfully, the husband got up, and mounted my toe clips. Of all of the countries I have ever lived in, these guys get the lowest score for mechanical ability and job pride.
"Now I need panniers." I said, not knowing that this was the beginning of the end for me in Taiwan.
In all fairness to the owners of the Giant store, I will admit that I did not know the Chinese word for panniers. So, I pointed at the rear wheel, and said. "I need bags that go right here, on the back of my bicycle." Once again, "Bags that go right here, so I can put my things in them."
Of course I had to say it eight times, until my words had penetrated the thick cloud that protected their brains from new information. The wife disappeared into the back of the shop, and returned with mudguards.
Confused, but not surprised, I took the mudguards from her hands, and said. "Are these bags?"
"No."
"Can I put my things in here?"
"No."
"So, this isn’t what I want, then is it?"
"No."
"Then why did you give me these?"
"I don’t know." She said.
"Do you have bags?"
"Come back on Friday."
At this point, I felt very lucky to have bought even my toe clips. I felt especially lucky not to be any of the people I had met thus far in my journey. So, I took the toe clips and left. I later found a plastic pickle tub.
Now, for my second, long distance bicycle trip, I was planning to ride 360 km, round trip, from my home in Kaohsiung, to Sun Moon Lake. This time, I insisted on having panniers. Once again, it took not one, but three trips to the Giant outlet before I was able to get my panniers. And once again, it was the wife who made it happen for me.
The husband again said that they didn’t have any panniers. The wife, however disappeared into the back of the store, and returned with the panniers. In the States, I’m sure that they would have had various styles and sizes to choose from. I would have been asked which ones I wanted. Here they had one kind, and I took them. This time, the wife actually mounted them for me.
Now I had my gear. But I was pissed off. Why is it that to get anything done in Taiwan I had to get ugly? Why did I have to yell and threaten just to buy a product? And why was everything so damned impossible?
Because of publishing obligations I didn’t even get started until after 1:00 PM. My plan was to sleep in Chiayi, abut 100 km from home, the first night. The terrain on the west coast is flat and boring. There is absolutely nothing to say about it. I passed through the urban sprawl of Kaohsiung, and Tainan without incidence. By sundown I had only made about sixty kilometers. But the way was well lighted, so I pressed on. About 25 km outside of Chiayi a Taiwanese cyclist pulled up beside me. We made small talk, deciding to continue on to Chiayi together.
"I only started riding three months ago." Wang explained. "My Taiwanese friends all think I am crazy for wanting to exercise."
I laughed, appreciatively. On my trips I often had people ask me why I didn’t just take the bus. Taiwan still doesn’t understand exercising.
"Are you married?" I asked.
"Of course I am married! I’m thirty seven." He laughed. Wang was one of those rare people who saw the humor in his own culture. "In Taiwan all adults are married. But you’re foreign. I bet you’re not married."
"No, I’m not." I confirmed.
"And you go to different countries and do different activities. Right?"
"Yes."
Wang shook his head. "You people are so lucky." He looked down at his belly and pinched a huge handful of flab. "But even if you didn’t know my age, you should know I am married by my belly."
I laughed.
"Taiwanese people are all very skinny. Then when we get married we get fat."
"Does your wife like to ride with you?"
"No, she always says that she will go with me. Then two kilometers later she says you go on. I’ll wait for you. After I ride fifty kilometers we go home, and she complains about muscle cramps."
"Do you have kids?" I asked.
He grabbed a bigger handful of fat. "You see that? That is a two-child belly. The more kids you have, the fatter you get. I have a friend at work with four kids. Man! What a porker."
I was cracking up.
"You’re not married. But you have like five kids, don’t you?" He asked.
"What?"
"Well, your belly is so big it’s like a five-kid belly."
"No, I don’t have kids."
Wang shook his head. "You foreigners are all so fat. You do exercise all the time, don’t you?"
"Yes."
"And yet, you are still fat. Do you know why? It’s because you eat hamburgers and drink milk."
Wang was killing me. Although I agree with his sentiment, that foreigners eat a bad diet, and this makes us fat, I also think it is interesting that Chinese people tell actual horror stories about what milk does to your body. I had heard this from so many Taiwanese. They think we are nuts for giving milk to children.
"Children in your country are so fat. But here, it is getting the same way. My colleague has a son, eight years old, his belly is bigger than mine. I asked my colleague how many children his son had." Said Wang. "My kids aren’t fat yet, but they always want to go to McDonalds. They don’t even like the food. I think they just want a toy. They beg me to go. They play with the toy for five seconds. Then they forget about it."
When we reached Chiayi Wang treated me to dinner. We ate dumplings, pork intestines, noodles, and fried duck’s blood. "You see, this is a healthy meal. Not like that stuff you are used to." He said.
I had been planning to sleep in a Catholic Church, but it was already too late. Most of the churches locked up around nine o’clock. So, I decided to continue on, in spite of fatigue, until I found a hotel. Three hours passed before I found one. Actually, I may have passed a hundred hotels, but I don’t know the Chinese characters for hotel. Around midnight I stopped, in a town called Da Lin, at the only sign, which said "Hotel," in English. The guy wanted $1,000 NT for the night. Since I am completely broke, this was not even an option. I was hoping not to spend more than $2,000 NT for the entire trip, including food.
"Look, it’s after midnight." I began. "If the room is empty now, it will be empty all night. Just give it to me for $500 NT, and at least you made something."
"For $500 I will let you sleep for three hours."
"I wanted to leave at 5:00 AM. Give me the room till then for $500. It’s less than two additional hours."In the end, the guy agreed. I have no way of knowing, but I suspect that when I make these deals with the night clerks they pocket the money I give them. The room had cable, a shower, and a coffee maker. But, since there was no National Geographic Channel I went right to sleep.
I headed out just before dawn. The trip from Da Lin to Sun Moon Lake was only about fifty kilometers. But, thirty of those kilometers were in the mountains. As a side note, the mountains were not nearly as high, or as severe as the trip between Hualien and Suao, which I had covered in my trip around the island. That ride is actually rated as one of the most difficult bicycle rides in the world. Also, the roads in the mountains, leading to Sun Moon Lake were all in good repair. And most were wide enough to be safe.
The weather was awful, dark, drizzly, over cast and cold. Once I left the main roads, and headed toward the lake, the signage became bad. Most signs were in Chinese, and often, there were no signs at all. Some signs were even wrong, telling you to turn left or right, when in actuality you should have gone straight. At almost every fork I had to go ask directions.
Every step of the way I just got more and more annoyed. Buying toe clips and panniers, and then riding my bicycle a few hundred kilometers should have been the easiest thing in the world. Why did it have to become such a huge pain in the neck? Sun Moon Lake is the third largest tourist attraction outside of Taipei. Why didn’t they have signs written in pinyin? Why didn’t they have any signs at all? The Taiwanese government has already admitted that the only two businesses that Taiwan can use to compete in the world economy are computers and tourism. If they want to join the WTO and if they want to attract tourists, shouldn’t they make things a little easier for us to get around? Any difficulty I had would have to be multiplied by a thousand for a tourist who didn’t speak Chinese and didn’t have friends in Taiwan.
At one of the many forks without a sign, I stopped in a repair shop to ask the way.
"Which road goes to Sun Moon Lake?" I asked the husband and wife, as I entered.
"Noooooo!" The woman screamed, shaking her head, and waving her arms, as if warding off a devil.
Normally I would have shown the slightest bit of tact. But I was tired. And I was angry. And I didn’t feel like playing the game of "It’s OK, I speak Chinese." No, I just wanted to know what would motivate an adult to freak out, wave his hands and scream like a small child.
"What’s your problem?" I asked in Chinese, not even caring where the lake was anymore.
"Noooooo!" She shouted again.
"What is your problem!" I Shouted. "Why are you so rude? I just want to ask where Sun Moon Lake is. Why are you acting like such a moron?"
She stopped screaming and said. "Go to the end and turn left."
When I got back on the bike my blood was pumping and my heart was racing. Why does it have to be like this? Why couldn’t she just have answered me the first time? Why did I have to get so angry? Do they really believe this is the best strategy for luring tourist dollars into Taiwan? And, once again, I had to ask myself what these repeated flashes of anger were doing to my body. It couldn’t be healthy. Would I one day die of a heart attack while trying to order coffee in a restaurant or while trying to transfer money at the bank?
I wasn’t sure I could do Taiwan anymore.
I took several wrong turns on steep mountain roads because there were no signs. I even know the characters for Sun Moon Lake, and yet couldn’t get there because of the lack of signage. To make matters worse, I was starving, and there hadn’t been a restaurant in hours. By now I was so angry and so fed up with the whole trip I didn’t care if I got there or not. I actually turned my bike around, determined to ride straight through the night if need be, to get back home. I would just make up a travel story from the Lonely Planet guide, steal some stock photos from an image library and turn it in as my own work.
But, my conscience got the better of me, and I forced myself on. Two kilometers later, I came up on a body of water. There was no sign to tell me that it was Sun Moon Lake. Of course not, why would there be? Although I assumed that there weren’t two large bodies of water this close together, I still wanted confirmation. But this would entail speaking to someone. The muscles in my neck and shoulders tied themselves into sailor knots. My pulse began to pound. I felt an immense pressure headache building up behind my eyes. I knew I was probably going to have to ask more than one person if this was indeed Sun Moon Lake, and even then I was going to have to repeat myself like ten times.
It happened exactly as I had thought. Twenty questions later I finally found someone who confirmed that this was the place.
The lake lay under a cold, heavy fog. So, there was no point in making any pictures. Even if it hadn’t been foggy, I just don’t get it. So it was a big lake. Big deal! It wasn’t as big as Lake Superior. It wasn’t as pure as Lake Tahoe. It wasn’t as romantic as Lake Constance. It wasn’t as Swiss as Lake Lucerne. And it wasn’t as fun to say as Lake Titicaca.
There were no services of any kind. There wasn’t even a restaurant on the West side of the lake. A beetle nut girl told me I had to ride all the way to the other side just to get something to eat.
There was no strip, like at Daytona. There were no casinos, like Monaco. And there were no naked Germans, like at every other beach in Asia. For once, I didn’t get it. What was the attraction? As hungry and pissed off as I was, I checked the guidebook to see exactly what Robert Storey had to say about the lake. He said that it was very popular with Taiwanese honeymooners. Well, of course it was. As much as it sucked, it was probably better than a honeymoon in Kaohsiung. He also said that he earthquake had destroyed all of the resorts and that they hadn’t been rebuilt.
One photo, and I was ready to head home. Correction, I was ready to be home. If I could have teleported, I would have. Instead, I now had 180 very boring kilometers to cover before I would be home.
Night caught me somewhere south of Da Lin. Normally I prefer to stay in Catholic churches. But as the evening went on, I was looking for any Christian church. Not only had I done two grueling days of cycling, but I had only slept a few hours the night before. Eventually, I would have accepted any temple. By eight o’clock I was willing to sleep in a Mosque. Luckily, it didn’t come to that.
I stumbled onto a Methodist church, and went inside. That was really the last normal thing that happened.
"I am riding my bicycle across Taiwan, and I need a place to sleep." I said.
The secretary looked at me very strangely.
"Why do you want to sleep here?"
"When I am traveling I always sleep in churches." I explained.
"Where did you sleep last night?"
Here, I told a fib. During my trip all the way around Taiwan I had slept in churches and temples most of the time. I didn’t want her to know that I had slept in a hotel the previous night, for fear that she would turn me away.
"I sleep in churches on my trips." I explained, but not actually answering her question.
"Where are you going to sleep tonight?"
"Here." I said. I thought that was clear.
"But why can’t you sleep in the same church where you slept last night?"
"Because it is 100 km away."
"Where are you going to sleep tomorrow night?"
"Tomorrow I will go back to my home in Kaohsiung."
"And sleep in a church?"
"No, I’ll sleep in my apartment."
"In a church?"
"No, I don’t live in a church. I live in an apartment. But when I am traveling around Taiwan I sleep in churches."
"But how did you know to come here?"
"There is an eight foot neon cross on the roof." I said, by way of explanation. She just stared at me, as if she needed more. "And I followed the sign until I got here."
"Oh." She said. Now she understood. "I must call the pastor." She explained, dialing the phone.
I had never had this much trouble at a church before. At the Catholic Church they always just said "yes" or "no." In fact, I had only been turned away at a church once, and that was because it was a home for mentally disturbed children, and the priest was afraid to have a stranger staying there. I respected that. But at least he had given me an answer. These guys continued to ply me with questions. They also asked to photo copy my passport, which I never carry with me. Instead, I handed them my Taiwanese ID card, thinking this would be even better, since it had my name and address written in Chinese. But the woman just looked at it and said, "But this is Taiwanese." I wasn’t sure what she meant by that.
Part of my motivation to sleep in a church was financial. But part was the fact that this was the exact stretch of highway where I had failed to find a hotel the previous evening. If she turned me away, there was a chance I would have to keep riding all night. And I was just too tired to be able to do that.
Three more church officials came and asked me questions. Then they left me alone in a huge room, seated in a wooden folding chair. It felt like an interrogation. They were probably outside, watching me through one-way mirrors.
"I am a stranger in a strange land." I thought, remembering Moses, or was it Tevia in "Fiddler on the Roof?" Either way, I was certain that there was something in the Bible about helping a weary traveler. Of course, when Martin Luther broke away from the Church, he must have left in a hurry, and accidentally left some of the books of the Bible behind. I knew that Methodist was basically Catholic light, but that they used the abridged version of the Bible. Maybe the part they left out was the part about helping strangers.
One woman, who had apparently read the unabridged version of the scriptures, lead me to a place where I could fill my water bottles. A few minutes later she showed me where I could take a shower, and also offered me some food. Now I was on the homeless track. Wasn’t this exactly what rescue shelters did for vagrants on those cold winter nights in New York?
Eventually the pastor showed up and we had a long talk. Although I had gotten a bit of a cold shoulder from the office staff, the pastor was as kind and intelligent as any Priest I had ever met. He wanted to hear all about my adventures river tracing and mountain climbing. "Next time you take me with you." He joked. He asked me if I was Methodist. When I told him I was Catholic, he laughed. "It is the same." He said, with a smile and a dismissive wave of the hand.
In defense of the office staff, I am not convinced that this building was actually a church. It may very well have been a Christian school, because inside, there were only offices and classrooms. Catholic churches, even here in Asia, have that large, impressive, medieval feeling to them. And they always have guest quarters. But the protestant churches tend to be more modern, more sterile, and less habitable.
In the end, the pastor let me sleep on the wooden floor in a classroom. For bedding he gave me a huge pile of the tiny blankets which the little kids use when they take their nap.
I woke up at five, to the sound of rain, and still had 120 km to go. The way was boring, cold, and wet. Getting out of Jaiyi was a nightmare. The highway signs abruptly stopped and I had to ask people how to go. This was easily the most frustrating part of the trip. I would pull up and say. "Excuse me, where is highway one?" in Chinese. Then they would either say. "I don’t speak English." Or switch to very bad English and say. "Where do you want to go?"
At the traffic light, a guy gave me the second response.
"I just told you where I want to go, didn’t I?" I asked in Chinese. "I want to go to highway one South."
"South?" He asked, as if trying out the word for the first time.
"Yes, South."
Then switching back to English. "But where do you want to go?"
I didn’t want to say that I was going to Kaohsiung because first of all, outside of Kaohsiung no one ever understands me when I say "Kaohsiung." So then I have to say "Taichung, Tainan, Kaohsiung." Then they will say. "Oh, Kaohsiung." Then the programmed response, which the robot-monkey-people would give me would be. "Kaohsiung is far away."
And then I would get angry and say. "Yes, I know that Kaohsiung is far away, but please tell me how to get there."
Then there would be more confusion, and they would ask me. "Are you going there on a bicycle?"
"Yes, I am going there on a bicycle. Please, just tell me where it is."
"You should take a train."
"Perhaps. But I’m not taking a train. I am taking a bicycle. Where is the road to Kaohsiung?"
By this time I would be screaming. And the worst is that this doesn’t happen once on each trip. This exact exchange happens every single time I go anywhere. And it happens at every single unmarked intersection. If the highway department would at least put signs there, I wouldn’t have to ask directions and life would be so much easier.
"South." I repeated.
"Where is highway one south?" Is a pretty straightforward question. In any other country people would say, "Go to the second light and hang a right." or some similar answer. But in Taiwan, people don’t seem to know that highways have numbers. They also don’t seem to use compass directions to get from point A to point B. So asking "Do I need to go North or South?" Doesn’t help.
Finally, I pulled out my map. But by this point I knew that I wasn’t going to get any further in my trip. Taiwanese people can’t read maps. This is pretty pathetic, in my estimation, since the map was written in Chinese. Furthermore, I was looking for highway one, which was marked with a big number one, and numbers are universal. (Side note: Yes, I know there are Chinese numbers, but all Chinese people can read Arabic numbers.)
I asked seven people, two of whom were police officers. And none of them could help me. Five of them gave me an answer, but it was a wrong answer. And I am convinced that they knew they were giving me the wrong answer. In the end, I took my best guess. I rode for two hours before I saw a sign for the highway again.
While I was in some rural no man’s land I stopped in a small restaurant for breakfast, and to get out of the rain. They were nice to me, and sold me my food without any problems, and treated me like an intelligent adult. The strange thing, however was that the whole town was staring at me. They all seemed to invent some pretext to come over to the restaurant and take a look at me. I guess they had never seen a foreigner before. I didn’t fault them, however. Their curiosity was logical. They just wanted to see me, nothing wrong with that. But there is something wrong with the people who just shake their heads in the hopes that I will go away.
It was one of those awful travel days where you just don’t want to do it. If I could have just left my bike at the side of the road and hitched a ride I would have. When I reached Tainan the rain got heavier, so I stopped in KFC and called my sister on my cell phone.
"I can’t believe you are calling me," she said.
"Why, I am having a slow day at work. So, I thought I would give you a call." When I was working on Wall Street I used to call my sister from my office all the time.
She convinced me that the sooner I got back on the bike the sooner I’d be home.
An hour later I stopped at McDonalds for coffee. A foreign woman pulled up on a scooter, and I immediately thought of my bicycle friend, Wang, from the other night. She must have weighed three hundred pounds. In the West she would have looked fat. But compared to the Taiwanese, she looked like some sort of giant mammal that has to stay in the water because its skeleton won’t support its body weight. "SUPER SIZE IT!!!" I wanted to yell, as a warning to the cooks, before she walked in.
I was absolutely not surprised when the crew greeted her by name. The manager even lead her to her own private table and hand delivered the food, so that no one would get injured if one of her legs should collapse beneath her. I wondered what would be the reaction if she went to the tiny little town where I had eaten breakfast. They’d be talking about her for years to come.
I had left my bike locked, leaning against the front window, where I could keep an eye on it. There was an old man, sitting on a bench, near the rear of my bicycle. He got up, and moved to a seat on the far side of my bike, where I couldn’t see him. I didn’t think anything of this, until I noticed that the part of my bike, which was visible began to giggle back and forth. At first I wasn’t sure what was going on. Then it hit me. He was trying to take something out of my panniers.
I rushed outside, not certain of what to do. If he were younger I would have beaten him senseless. But this guy looked like he was 437 years old. I couldn’t even bring myself to yell at him. It seemed like too much of an evil thing to do. So I stood, staring, lost. The old man tried turning his back to me. But I guess he could still feel my eyes on him. So, he got up, and walked away. I checked, and sure enough, he had unzipped two of my bags. This is probably the only time since I have been living in Taiwan that anyone had tried to steal from me.
When I saw a sign, which read 16 kilometers to Kaohsiung, my rear tire went flat. On my tip all the way around Taiwan, my bike broke down 30 km from home. So, I was doing better. I tried pumping up the tire or even replacing the tube, but it was no use. The tires had simply worn through, because of all of the riding I had done on them. Well, if you’re going to have a break down, 16 miles from home wasn’t a bad place to do it. I rode the rest of the way, on a flat tire, with every bump and pebble in the road sending a shock wave up through my groin. I never wanted to have children anyway.
And so ended my final adventure in Taiwan, at least for a while. Next week I will be leaving for Thailand, where I don’t speak a word of the language, and where I will begin a whole new set of adventures. I wonder if they have fat people who can read maps in Thailand? Do they have panniers and toe clips? I can’t wait to find out.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, that's it for this post. As for training updates, I'm feeling shot up and shagged after one helluva intense ride today, so no dice.

crestonebiker out~

Training cycle. Revalations.

2008-03-22T09:44:00.000+08:00

Training up to now's progressing pretty well...been doing 40km of intervals every week now to prep for the Changi races. I'll trust that all ECB members'll do the same? YOU'D BETTER. CRITERIUM'S A GODDAMN TEAM EVENT.

But on a lighter note, cycling as a whole's looking up. I'm adjusting to the new bike, the stem is adjusted to perfection, and the cycling cleats are just starting to come into their own [ie. broken in]. Wait...did I mention I crashed yesterday? Well, here goes.

I was doing my usual 28km prep ride to SAFRA and doing an impression of obstacle course navigation trying to overtake the slowpokes cycling rental bikes on the way. So far so good. I've escaped unscathed from 2 minor collisions and 4 full-scale, multi-rider crashes a few km back. Great, innit? Nothing can take me down. But then, this kid---no, this TODDLER---suddenly swings out of the oppo lane and INTO MY PATH! I don't even have time to go 'wtf' before I go down with him. When I regain my senses, the bastard's standing there like a dick and crying his head off. Visual check...no injuries. Ask him what's wrong....."I'm scared!" W.T.F. You twisted my steerer fork outta place and forced me to perform a full-scale skid to avoid you and now you tell me you're fucking scared. And to top it off, he didn't even take a tumble. I was kinda tempted to take his ride and twist the fork around too, but his mum appeared. Leastways she didn't blame me like most other asshole parents would. But hell, worst part was that I didn't bring my allen key. Ride's over. Had to call up my folks and get a ride home. Shit thing was that, ALL MY ACCIDENTS ARE 'COS OF THOSE DAMN TODDLERS ON FOUR-WHEELERS.

But hell. Thanks to him, my mum dragged me to the doc to check my knee....not like it had anything to do with the crash. She just wants to X-ray the damn thing, something I've been putting off for months. Anyway, doc just prodded and poked, told me to flex the joint and passed verdict. No bball for me again. Ever. Soccer is pretty much restricted too. I'm supposed to take it REALLY easy when running long-distance [NAPFA GG liao], but cycling's ruled as being good for my knee. Guess there's always a silver lining to everything. But hell. I hate wearing knee supports.

P.S. Congrats to Yun Hao for getting his wallet mailed back to him. At least you got your boomslang card back ROFL.

Screeching brakes, skidding tires

2008-01-20T21:45:00.000+08:00

Well, things have come this far, kid. You've actually been able to take advantage of my absence to squirrel your way onto my spot, encroach and claim my turf. You've left your greasy chain marks all over my routes, and I don't see you carrying degreaser on your next run to remedy that. Know this, kid. You might've appeared to triumph this round. But the race ain't over. You've got laps to go. And I won't leave this unanswered. Wear a mouthguard, you degenerate scum. It'll save your pearly whites when you bite the dust. And if you beg, I might refrain from leaving rubber compound trails on your ugly mug. Think about it. While you still can.

Contemplating you.

2007-09-20T22:06:00.000+08:00

Because you've tortured me. Tormented my very soul and shook my principles to the core. Cut through my psyche like an acetylene torch through a Aleoca frame. And yet you appear innocuous, seemingly oblivious to how you've disassembled my mental world like a wheel being de-spoked. Slowly, surely, becoming an empty shell. This post is for you. Just to inform. That you've succeeded beyond your wildest dreams or hopes. That my mind lies in tatters; my very existence an empty shell. I coast bewilderedly along the unpaved dirt road of life, cranking only when my plummeting velocity threatens to destroy my equilibrium entirely. Knowing that my cleats are fouled, that I can't unclip till I find a support to lean against. Yet, what little havens there were, you destroyed. You tailed me down the treacherous drops, before nudging me into the filthiest ditch you could seek. Only sheer skill and mucle memory has brought me this far. I'm on autopilot. My wheelset creaks; my spokes are a forlorn mess, sagging and twisted, torquing the wheel to nearly unrideable dimensions. My seatpost sways and buckles. My frame shudders and shimmies, and I don't even know why. The worst thing is that I don't even understand what you gain from this. Maybe only you alone know the truth.

But, if you plumb deep within your soul, if you conclude that your depraved actions were but an act of untold folly, of delusion and madness, if you decide to actually care, then know this. Know that in these days the path I ride runs along the borders of the humane mind. Know that I teeter on the fault line of reality. Know that somewhere in the wilderness of my mind, there's a figure, his jersey ripped, his helmet fissured, his gloves bearing the scars of numerous suicide skids; his spokes, corroded, snapping off one by one, wheels buckling slowly but surely; you realize from that weary grip on the bars that only raw skill and experience has guided him through the long miles behind. Yet the whitening of the knuckles forewarns that skill is not forever; that without a place of respite, a haven where he may recuperate, lick wounds both mechanical and organic, and rebuild his consciousness for the arduous journey to come, he won't make it. Fatigue triumphs in the end; the torso slumps, the chain slackens, and the clatter of the cranks echoes the wrenching death knell of the creased frame alloy. But for now, the figure rides on, clinging to the last vestiges of hope. Intervention on your part is still possible. But the end isn't far away.

~Ride fast, Ride Safe.~

Overhaul and maintenance.

2007-09-16T10:31:00.000+08:00

Recently, Iwas doing prelim maintenance on my ride. Meaning that I clean the chain, wipe off fouling from the cassette, and lube the whole thing. Polishing the frame and derailleurs. Lubing the gear mechs. Checking for spoke fatigue. All the greasy but neccessary crap. It just made me think...what's my bike to me? I've come pretty far from being that snot-nosed kid who thought that singlespeeds were cool 'cos you could pedal like a maniac on them. Back then, my mech was nothing more than a more dangerous toy, an alternative form of entertainment. Lately, I've realized this isn't the case. My buddies tell me that on the pedals, I'm a whole different person. I prefer to think that the bike infuses its personality into me. Being on it just opens up my world; introduces new dimensions. All the crazy skids, switchblades, jumps I pull off...it's just not who I usually am. Yet I've been there, done that. Sure, there's been a wipeout or two here and there 'cos I didn't pay attention to what I was doing. Yet I'm not haunted by these failings. I consistently bite off more than I can chew, yet I routinely survive those sticky situations. I've never been forced to endure the humiliation of doing a flip over my own handlebars and being run over by my bike, something touted as a coming-of-age ritual for most mountain bikers. Why? I realize my bike is no longer a metal mech. It's become, in many ways, a part of me; in fact, it's a neccessary extension of myself. I'm told not many cyclists have the chance to feel this way. I guess I'm rather lucky. Or, to be narcissistic, I could say it's natural talent. It means the same thing to me.

~Ride fast, ride safe.~

Cyclists' Apocrypha

2007-08-14T21:52:00.000+08:00

In the beginning God created the bicycle, saw that it was good, then went for a nice Sunday ride on the bike lanes He'd made the day before, and they were good, too, because they were new and He had the angels keep them clear of debris. Later, of course, God would get cross and have the flood wash all the good ones away.

And God said to Himself, Let us create man, because cycling is too much fun to keep to Myself, and so He created man, him did He create, create did He him do. And God put man in paradise, and commanded him, Glideth upon the earth anywhere thou wisheth, except for that big hill over there. For on the day thou goeth down that hill, thou shalt surely die.

And God said, Man needs a companion to keep him from spending too much money on new bicycles. So God caused man to fall into a deep sleep by asking him if he wanted to go clothes shopping at the mall, then took a rib from him. Then God said to Himself, Who am I kidding, I'll never hear the end of it when she finds out she was just a rib, so He created woman from frankincense and myrrh and a certain je ne sais quoi.

And God said, Let man have dominion over lathe drills and Philips head screwdrivers, and let woman have dominion over everything else, and as long as thou art naked and unashamed, thou might as well be fruitful and multiply.

Lastly, God created the chicken and the egg, in that order, which should clear up that matter.

Now the serpent, he was a wily one, and he said to woman, Yea, hath God said you may cycle anywhere but down that hill? And the woman said unto the serpent, That's about the size of it: go downhill and die. And the serpent said, Ye shall not surely die, you probably won't even fall off. For God doth know that on the day you go downhill, you will not need to pedal for a long time. Go on, give it a try.

And the woman saw that the hill was good, she did not need to pedal for a long time. She told the man about it, and he also went downhill. Their eyes were opened, they saw they were naked, and they sewed fig leaves into padded cycling shorts because sometimes it got bumpy going downhill.

And they heard the voice of God as He was offroad, fully suspended of course, and they hid their bicycles at the bottom of the hill and started whistling nervously. And God called unto the man, and said, Where art thou? And the man said, We art down here. And God said, Hast thou cycled downhill, whereoff I commanded thee that thou shouldest not? And man said, It was her idea.

And God said unto the woman, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow whilst climbing hills; in pain shalt thou perch upon thy saddle.

And God said unto the man, Because thou hast harkened unto the voice of thy wife, cursed is regular bike maintenance. The inner workings of the hub gear will be beyond thou to repair. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou service thy freewheel.

And God said, Behold, the man doesn't listen very well, so he kicked him out of paradise and guarded the entrance with a sign of a picture of a bicycle in the middle of a red circle. And He had a Cherubim with a flaming sword stop by a few times a week for good measure.

This is the book of the generations. The first bicycle was a single speed, Godspeed, but after that it got complicated. Sprockets begat sprockets and cables begat kinks. Celerifere begat Draisienne begat Macmillan begat Michaux begat Ariel begat Bayliss Thomas begat Lawson begat Rover begat Boneshaker begat Ordinary begat Raleigh.

And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth in a critical mass, God saw that the wickedness of man was great and he did not like to give way to anyone on the road even his mother, so He directed Noah to build an ark made out of renewable resources. There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark every type of bicycle: one to ride and one for spare parts. And Noah gathered two touring bikes and two mountain bikes; two recumbents and two tandems; two road racing bikes and two cross bikes; also four unicycles, just in case there was a misunderstanding, and a brace of Bromptons, as their folded countenance pleasethed Him. And God said there might be Some strong winds in the Southeast. And it rained for 40 days and 40 nights, then drizzled for another fortnight.

And God remembered Noah and asswaged the waters, and Noah opened a door on the ark and set loose Japheth on a unicycle, and God said This is a covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature: that a man on a unicycle is a hilarious sight. The waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.

A bit later, God spake unto Moses, saying, Here are a few ground rules, I hath numbered them for thou for easy reference:

I. Thou shalt hold no other races above the Tour de France.
II. Thou shalt not make unto thee helmets which cost more than £100.
III. Thou shalt not take My name in vain everytime thou gettest a flat tyre.
IV. Remember to oil thy chain, to keep it rolling.
V. Honour the Zebra Crossing and those walking upon the face of it.
VI. Thou shalt not ignore other road users, nor cycle recklessly upon the pavement.
VII. Thou shalt not steal bicycles.
VIII. Thou shalt not kill, except bicycle thieves.
IX. Thou shalt not hang onto moving cars.
X. Thou shalt not covet they neighbour's new Cannondale, nor his groupset, nor his £3000 mtb, nor even his stylish shades.

Forget not the Titanium Rule: Signal unto others as thou wouldst have others signal unto thou.

And moving right along, there came four horsemen of the Apocalypse, and they were the Taxicab Driver, and the Motorcycle Messenger, and the White Van Man, and the Man Opening a Car Door Without Looking.

Amen

Servicing 201

2007-08-09T11:39:00.000+08:00

Brought my ride down to Hup Leong today for Gilbert to service it. That guy knows how to squeeze the cash out, all right. He put my bike on the stand, cranked the pedals a few times and wrote down a list of what needed changing. The damn thing was 2 pages long. The best part was the tyres. He took a look at my beloved Panaracer Trailblasters 210 and went like, "The sidewalls are cracked. Replace them. I'll replace with another set of knobby tyres, multipurpose use, ok?" I started thinking, which no-life company makes multi-purpose tyres nowadays...
It only hit me when he showed me the tyres. Cheap Maxxis ones with an all-black surface and the all-too-regular knob tread. I remember them all too well....unfortunately. In fact, among the East end bikers, they aren't called multi-purpose tyres...they're known as 'no-purpose tyres'. Damn things can't corner, can't grip slick rock surfaces like granite, and can't even accelerate. Riding on them is akin to riding an urban single-speed bike---they're as slow as molasses. I guess the proprietor cottoned on to my thinking fast---perhaps his customers aren't all that retarded. He asked me what other brands I had in mind. I asked him for the Panaracer Trailblasters...and he promptly discovered they were out of stock. So I settled for their new Firebird XC series , which possesses supposedly unrivaled acceleration among off-road tyres. Then I added a cyclocomputer, which cost another 35 bucks. Total cost for servicing and replacement? SGD$201. New parts inclusive? SGD$236. A pretty good deal when you consider the improved performance. And the new tyres should be interesting...

Bike specifications and mods. Future mods?

2007-07-24T21:09:00.000+08:00

This is in response to popular demand from some of my biking associates. Btw, on a more informal note, HRP is OVER!!!! All the hard work, unrelenting effort and sacrifice has culminated in a pretty satisfying product....I'm still overwhelmed by the sheer relief of it all. Will blog about it sometime else though. And now...the technical part.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Original specifications: Stock mountain bike with basic knobbled tyres, standard Shimano gear set on Crestone aluminium frame. Stock straight-bar handlebars with standard gear shifter [knobs]. Standard suspension-mounted synthetic plastic seat. Front wheel suspension.

Modifications:

Aftermarket Trailblaster 160 tyres to replace stock tyres.

Aftermarket handlebars with wide steering and vulcanized rubber grip shifts [grip shifts pwnzorzz if you can master them haha]

Metal holder for water container on lower bar

Leather narrow-bodied bike seat with elongated stand

Results: The Trailblaster tyres are definitely the most significant modification. The enhanced grip squares to the side let you corner like never before. They provide superior grip in conditions that would defeat most standard knobbled tyres and the aluminium rims provide an economical yet reliable solution for getting both weight reduction and strength. Whee! Meanwhile, the grip shifts allow for smoother transition in switching gears in a tight spot. The forward twisting action in infinitely more natural than trying to twiddle some lever on a steep slope. Plus you can change 5 gears on a grip shift in the time needed to change one gear on a lever-operated shift! How pwnage is that.....as for the bike seat, what can I say? The higher you sit, the more powerful your pedaling stroke. That's as long as your feet can touch the pedals though.

a line in the sand

2007-07-21T13:08:00.001+08:00

Get this clear. I've got my starting line. My turf. You want to enter it? Challenge me for it. Don't swagger in and expect me to kneel down and hand you the ownership rights. And if you're not up to the task, get lost. Don't curse your bike and whine about bad luck. 'Cos in biking, there ain't no such thing as luck. Your expensive bike isn't gonna get you anywhere either. Because mountain biking isn't about the machine. It's about skill, the ability of the individual. Get real, and piss off, asshole. There isn't gonna be a second chance.

Mountain biking...is it time?

2007-07-17T18:16:00.001+08:00

I've been rethinking my biking career in the time I've been laying off competitive biking. Although the East Coast scene is still pretty lively and occasionally challenging, I've realized one thing over the time in my biking career. The very first form of REAL biking I was exposed to was mountain biking-----literally thrown in at the deep end by my uncle on the Bukit Timah track. And since that very day, it's been the X-factor in my burning passion for biking. Even after all that time doing asphalt racing on the ECP circuit, it seems things aren't gonna change. I'm only satisfied nowadays when I'm able to cut corners when going off-road or charge up a hill faster than my adversaries. And when I was told that the first SLC briefing in June would be on a Saturday, I almost lost the plot. Why? Because it clashed with my pre-arranged trip to the Bukit Timah trail. At one point of time, I thought, what the heck, I'll just cart my bike there, take attendance, and skip the whole thing. Who wants to play lame icebreakers anyways. Which just goes to say.....something. In fact, I was only saved from lunacy by my mum who gave me a verbal bashing and compounded my bike. So, all factors considered, am I really following my true calling? Even though I'm enjoying considerable success on the ECP circuit, is it really for me? Am I just in it for the convenience and success? Perhaps it's time to consider a return to the dirt track. Hmmmm.

Withdrawal.

2007-07-15T20:29:00.000+08:00

The EastCorezBikerz team was never really hot when it came to membership availability. Now we're feeling the heat. While I'm supposedly injured and on hiatus from competitive biking, I figured my buddy [and the only other member] would still be able to tear it up on the ECP circuit every week. Great news. The smartass went and got himself mixed up in a 5-way biking accident. Apparently he was maxing out his bike speed AND trying to squeeze in between 2 slowpokes who were hogging the lane when another biker decided to try the exact same thing. Problem was, this individual of superior judgement happened to be going in the opposite direction. End result? Major abrasion to the knee, possible ligament damage and chest pain. Conclusion? EastCorezBikerz is officially disappearing from the competitive scene for a while. Well, what can I say. You gotta take a break sometimes. I just didn't realize it would be a compulsory one.

X-country contemplated.

2007-07-15T10:35:00.000+08:00

I took some time off biking today to allow the knee some rest. According to some of my buddies, I shouldnt even be on my bike; should actually be wearing a leg brace and a crutch. However, limping around on foot isn't exactly my cup of tea, so I'll pass. Was just going over some schematics of the Bukit Timah bike trail again in preparation for my next trip there, and just happened to get this nostalgic impulse. Reliving the days on the dirt trail, the endless tumbles, the mudbath I landed in, the countless setbacks and the help rendered by the old-timers there then. I recall that back when I was still a kid, my only goal was to reach the end of the damn path so I could turn around and go home. But now, it seems, priorities have to change. What is X-country biking really about anyway? Is it speed? Power? It can't be.....that's for road biking. Looking up at a 70 degrees slope that resembles quicksand after torrential rain really takes the notion of speed out of your mind. You've got to know every cranny, every rock, every fissure of that hill in order to coax your bike up without taking a nasty tumble and a nice long slide to square one. And nowadays, I find my mind is no longer set on the final stretch of the trail; instead, I tend to compartmentalize the course, assessing individual obstacles and surmounting them one at a time instead of trying to mentally conquer them all at once. And when things screw up, or you realize your assumptions were screwed and something goes badly wrong, no raw speed or power is gonna help you. It's a simple matter of possessing the right skills and a calm head so as to be ultimately able to pedal your way out of every situation. It seems that after all those years, I've finally achieved this level of biker's psyche. A gratifying prospect.

Busted. Again.

2007-07-14T12:03:00.000+08:00

I realize it's gonna be R & R for me as far as competitive biking is concerned....the damn knee hurts so I can barely walk straight now. My old thigh injury aggravated too....the Bt. Timah track will have to wait I guess. Am contemplating the idea of bringing in my bike for maintenance again....judging from the circuit run done just now, it sounds like there's a substantial amount of sand from the last recce trip fouling the gears. Upon closer observation, I realised that the chain needs to be regreased. How dumb is that?

Btw, for mosta you who dont know, this happens to be a revived blog. It died, what, 2 years back? Whee. Exhumation is fun.....