It did rain eventually, but only for the final stretch of 20km. By then each of us had covered a minimum decent 100km. I had been half hopeful that the impending rain might hold off till we reach our destination. But just like I've never won a single lucky draw my entire life, my hope was destined to bear no fruits.
The rain finally came, and it hit us with all the ferocious might Heaven could muster. I could barely see the road ahead as the relentless rain assaulted my face - and my glasses. And the headwind - it slowed Kenneth and I to a horrible crawl as we laboured uphill.
Yes, I did feel a little disappointed that we could not beat the rain to reach Sebana dry. But I knew i really could not ask for more. We started the ride with very good weather, and the rain - which was really just a matter of time - only came after our last rest-stop. After a while i felt refreshed cycling in the torrential rain. And I was glad that i wasn't cycling alone in the harsh weather, but had Kennethh's company: I felt that much safer and confident riding alongside and behind him (most of the time it was the latter). I remember telling him that it felt like we were doing some epic ride, two of us riding out a storm in a space so vast we were but two insignificant beings.
By comparison, Group 2 comprising of Mr Armstrong Jon himself and himself was way ahead of us. He might just be able to surge fast enough to exit the rain zone, except that I think the rain zone covered every plausible overland. Not that he needed a reason to cycle fast, but i'm sure the heavy rain gave an added impetus.
Quite unexpectedly, the best part of the ride came in the second day morning, when we did a leisurely ride in Sebana. Jon was in his complete cycling gear while Kenneth and I were in casual clothes, slippers included. K, as expected, was still in bed. (Later he refused to believe that we were out cycling in the morning!)
We probably cycled for about an hour, and what a most wonderful time it was! Besides venturing into a couple of small roads (only to find ourselves at a dead end) we also reached the opposite side of the river. We even took photos at the helipad, before riding down the meandering track. When the end seemed nowhere in sight, we turned back. The road now meanders in the opposite direction, and i challenged myself to recognise the turning points which i only passed through not long ago. I guess when one cycles slowly in the quiet countryside, one tends to find little mental tasks to occupy the mind. One also tends to become contemplative, for Man seems given to introspection often when in relative solitude.
It was all very leisurely and peaceful, cycling in the morning past stretches of unbroken foliage. One pedals on lightly, and before long the pedalling takes on a momentum that seems to keep one going on and on without consciousness of movement. Jon was cycling without his jersey, and that prompted Kenneth to remark how he's risking greater body exposure to pesky (aedes) mosquitoes. Well, Jon might well have replied that his velocity makes it a tall order for a mosquito to settle on him, much less suck his blood.
It's a different kind of enjoyment when the ride goes deliberately slow and relaxing, as compared to when one cycles with purpose on the road towards a known finality. (In the latter, one tends to ride fast and the sense of enjoyment doesn't quite come through on the go.) When one cycles slow amidst quiet surroundings, with no notion of destination in mind, one is less preoccupied with cycling. There's time to take in the tranquil sights and sounds, which, together with the sense of freedom that cycling inherently affords the rider, leave one feeling rejuvenated. That morning, i quietly savoured the process of slow riding: the smell of raw vegetation, the spaciousness of the place, the absence of crowds and enveloping bulidngs. For that brief period, time and other worldly concerns eluded my mind.
All of us grow older, but a few, a rare few, grow younger. The night before, K was officially elevated to that ripe old age of 21. He's right; the joke never ends. And why should it? Most people would love to be made the joke! And somehow, the joke never feels stale coming from Jon, who perpetually rolls out one hilarious punch line after another. ("Giraffe," he termed the broadcaster who didn't seem to have such a long neck till he uttered the word.) And thus marked the second night in a three-week long celebrations befitting of a young man who has come of age.
