3 days ago
Give and take on tarmac
I GOT into cycling just about a year after someone bought and ate an infected bat from a market in Wuhan, China.
Yes, I was one of the millions of stir-crazy people got sucked into cycling as we tried to escape the claustrophobic restrictions during Covid.
Well, that is not entirely true. Actually, I got into cycling in the 1960s, when I used to bike to school, the corner sundry shop and other places. But that was out of necessity, just to transport myself.
In those days bicycles were beasts made of steel. Their frames were steel, they had steel brakes, steel rims and steel bells. They were heavy — both to carry as well as pedal. Mine was made in Nottingham and, of course, it was a Raleigh Robin Hood.
They had history, looked the business, but were terrible to ride. So as soon as I discovered other forms of transportation, I dumped my bicycle as a means of getting around.
So, when I came back to cycling in 2020, it was a completely different world. Bicycles were now made from titanium, carbon fibre or aluminium. And all cyclists were required to wear spandex — it seemed that way, at least.
'Only dinosaurs and crazies ride steel nowadays, but these are all I've got,' Bruce said, gesturing to the two bicycles we were going to ride that day.
Bruce, a history buff and 'old-school' cyclist who rides the back alleys of Kuala Lumpur in search of artefacts, had been pressed into service to teach me how to ride a bike again.
Thank God, none of us were wearing spandex, because we were going to ride 'gravel', a new branch of cycling that sneers at tarmac and
thrives on plantation roads and muddy logging trails.
'Mind the snakes, sometimes they cross the path, try not to run over them,' said Bruce as we set off into the oil palm on that fine Sunday morning.
We went on a 40km ride through oil palm, swamp and rubber plantations, interspersed with the occasional sandy tracks over old tin mines.
Bruce would periodically point
out some geographical feature on or near the trail to show where someone had broken a rib, fallen into a ravine, or sighted a cobra or two.
'Excuse me, Bruce. It seems this gravel cycling thing is a bit dangerous, no?' I asked, once the sweat had dried and my heart rate was no longer doing aerobatics in the over-100 BPM range.
'Riding a bike is inherently dangerous. You are sitting a few metres off the ground, trying to work against natural sensibility and gravity. You will always teeter on that delicate balance between pleasure and disaster. Unless all your senses are turned on and alert, you will fall.'
'Oh,' I said.
He went on to talk about the old days of cycling, when there were fewer riders before the Covid gang took up the sport.
'I remember the time when we shared the tarmac peacefully with other people. There we were, bicycles, cars, bullock carts, tricycles, and yes, even buses — all smiles and goodwill.'
But times have changed, Bruce felt. We now have TikTok and social media. Everyone wants to find something to hate, and adults going around in tight clothes are easy targets.
'They forget that behind every cycling bib, pair of sunglasses and expensive bicycle is a human soul, with feelings, desires and a sense of humour, ' Bruce said.
'A cyclist is human too, let's be kind to one another.'
I would have listened to Bruce for longer, but the accumulated mud and sweat on my skin needed a shower, so I thanked him for the lesson and bid him farewell.
'Goodbye, and ride safe,' he said.
'Whatever you do don't argue with bus drivers.'
ZB Othman is an editor of The Malaysian Reserve.
This article first appeared in The Malaysian Reserve weekly print edition
