Today the four of us rode up and down a new route. From Alabang, we cycled through Daang Hari until we reached the big fork. [We actually cycled past the fork to Verdana, enjoyed the fresh country breeze on our faces, felt the sense of achievement at reaching the top of the hill where the copper-colored dome of the big church in Dasmarinas, and then turned around.] We turned left on the fork (remember this is left where your your back is towards Alabang) into a smaller but still divided highway.
The road is well cemented, a divided one with 2 lanes on each side, safe for for cyclists, very friendly because there were few cars. Cyclists of all denominations (by that I mean bike lineage and human body sizes, bike types, and muscle capability) eased down the road, occupying one full lane on each side. This is as close to a bike lane that one can get in Manila.
Many like Donnie, Ernie, Fritz, and I were going slowly. We were engaged in a 4-way conversation, good friends chatting, occasionally overtaking each other or the slower mountain biker. I huffed a bit in the slight grade, Donnie slid back and forth, the natural sweeper, Fritz barreled down unwilling unable to slow down, and Ernie relaxing through the climbs with his 3rd crank.
Donnie explained that the road is a good one to bring one’s family on. Forgiving because there are no cars, yet a good challenge to be able to talk about. Maybe one day I can convince my children, before sickness or old age gets to me. If one of them decides to take up the hobby, I will have my excuse to get another bike!
It was an easy 6 kilometer round-trip ride. I could barely make out the small-type distance counter in my LCD speedometer because my 49-year-old eyes need glasses even to enjoy a good meal. The 3rd kilometer one-way was enough for me to break a little sweat, enough to zoom fast in the slight downgrades, enough to professionally toggle up and down my gears in the fashionably slight upgrades. We overtook the mountain bikers who have to work with smaller front cranks, a few of whom were just about the same bumble-bee physiqued as I am. I did not look into the odometer lest the sight of a few kilometers above 10 would trigger subconscious flows of lactic acid.
I have the energy of a beginner road cyclist but I have a Tour de France yellow-jersey cyclist’s dreams. Half the fun of the Saturday break-of-dawn (well, 6:30 a.m. really) ride is the Monday and Tuesday conversations about the high points of last Saturday’s ride, the Wednesday wishing for the weekend, and the Thursday and Friday lunches planning for the coming weekend ride. We dream of climbing up Tagaytay.
As we neared what seemed the end of the highway, we saw many cyclists parked along the U-turn curve. All bronzed by the sun it seemed, male bonding in groups. One group was at the end corner of the road, another was on the left side, each group having an invisible yet friendly border. As we neared them, we nodded up, they smiled. Cyclists smile at each other because we know the pain.
We turned left into a steep downhill, still a nice concrete road but now narrower two-way. The downhill would have triggered an adrenaline rush in me and a flurry of upgearing flicks of my forefinger to keep the tension and to eke out as much acceleration to get as high up the inevitable energy-sapping, thigh-wrenching climb that follows every gift of effortless descent, but it did not. Perched on top of a thin metal frame with meter high wheels, now in a barely-controlled 35 kilometer-per-hour slide down an unknown road without the safety net of a seatbelt (amazing how thoughts of a seatbelt flashed in my mind), my forefingers autonomically tensed, reached out to the brake lever (a Shimano 105 groupset), pulled hard to keep the speed below 40 kilometers. I was afraid to be splattered on the road. Fritz on the other hand zoomed past all of us, as usual.
The downhill rush is short because there are just too many turns on this road, a pedestrian or three too many, all oblivious of moving carbon-fiber objects (our bodies) in barely controlled flight. I watch the road intently because there are just too many cracks.
This two-lane road continues on, a back route to Muntinlupa Donnie said. There are nice intervals of heady downhills, some shallow long downgrades of the kind that makes one feel good about cycling and oneself, a moment of wind on one’s face, a champion’s ride. There were uphills that follow but they are muted.
Then there is the last valley. We rode down what looked like a mountain zigzag road. It conjures up the image of Lance Armstrong in the King of the Mountain leg of the Pyrennees. The downhills feel truly life-threatening, the two-lane road narrower still as the gravity and centrifugal forces of the turns compete to throw me off the bike. I start to think about a replacement Giro helmet because surely the multi-thousand cost of such a beautiful protective gear must be more effective than my low hundreds piece. I pray that my simple caliper brakes do not fail me, that the rubber would not slide off, for the effect is unimaginable. I do not even know what gear I am on and keeping the chain tension is far from my mind. I am simply holding on to the bike as we swing left and right our way down, keeping the speed down as much as possible. Thankfully there are a few cars on the road, few enough to let us enjoy the stretch, moving slow enough to glance up and enjoy the road, but not slow enough to converse. It is each rider to his own now.
As we neared what felt the bottom of this road, the nagging thought came to me: if this is a steep downhill, what will the return ride feel? Before the thought developed into a nightmare, the road went into an unexpected climb. It was not too steep but I stood up on the bike. I must look like professional cyclist pushing himself, I imagined. The months in Fitness First’s spinning classes finally paid off, giving me the confidence to stand up and pump hard. It felt great, I was up on the bike letting gravity and my healthy weight do the work. The slope was gentle; I did not need to call on my reserves yet; my thighs were not screaming.
All of a sudden, the road rose steeply. I looked up and was floored to see the horizon shift halfway up the sky. I was pumping hard for real now, really standing up, my gear at the lowest setting. But I was hardly moving forward, like a trick-bike moving inch by inch, I was pushing down as hard as I could yet my forward movements could be counted in a feet or two each leg. The road was just too steep on the right turn. I am now in the right half of the road, hogging the road, each push down is barely successful. Donnie and then Ernie whistled past me on the turn. Donnie gave an encouraging “you can make it, very near now” message. I thought with envy at Ernie’s 3-piece crankset; behind me he was and I could imagine him effortlessly pump, seated relaxed, using the smallest crank.
A few half-feet at a time I progressed. Finally, the steep right turn starts to fall behind me, a van, a jeep overtake me. I see a wide open entrance on the right side. Donnie is there waiting. He gave me a look that asked: ”maybe we should not stop, the end of this climb is near.”
“No,” my look emphatically answered. I whipped out my Gatorade-filled water bottle from the twin holders on the frame. I sipped daintily but without stopping until I was near the bottom quarter of the contents. ”I absolutely need my powershot,” I announced, and then reached behind me for my white medicine plastic bottle. It contains a awful-tasting homemade brew of molasses, honey, calamansi and raspberry jam, with a dash of salt for useful minerals. I took a big gulp and closed the bottle. Whoosh, the energy blast of honey and molasses jolted me. Or so I hoped and imagined. Not content, I reached back again for a bar of Trail Mix. I munched down. This was not food for pleasure; it was for survival. All these sweetness was not washed down well by an equally sweet grape-flavored Gatorade. But I did not have water. And I was running out of Gatorade so I allowed the gooey taste to stay in my mouth.
My breath slowing down, I was now nearly ready to continue. Fritz had just reached us so we had the excuse to stay a few more minutes.
As we chatted, a geriatric and a second one on mountain bikes rose from the mountain bend of the road and continued on. Ahh, they are not stopping to pause. They looked barely winded, they even looked up and smiled. They were not really geriatrics but they were older than us. My eyes widened as the second one continued past us, the effort of the big climb hardly bothering him, it seemed. Ernie guessed my thoughts and said: ”they are using mountain bikes, it is easier.” I smiled. My pride saved.
The rest of the ride was anti-climactic after that. A little grade up, a longer grade down. We went into a busy town thoroughfare, jeeps overtaking us and stopping. And then, serendipitously, motorcyle-riding local cops escorting what must have been a politician’s funeral procession stopped the traffic on the intersections. We hogged the road, our road bikes moving faster than all vehicles in that empty road. The four of us bunched up again. Jeeps periodically stopped in front of us and deft maneuvering and body English allowed us to continue without stopping.
Before I figured out where we were, the road opened up and we were underneath the Southern Luzon Expressway overpass over Alabang intersections. Now there was a spaghetti of roads and a convoluted mass of tricycles, jeepneys, and pedestrians. I easily got on and off the bike, my feet still not using cleats; my friends, more professional, with cleats clicked their feet on and off the pedals. The traffic light turned green, I jumped on the pedals and rode hard to get through ahead of the slower starting gasoline-powered pack. A bicycle makes its way through heavy traffic with ease but at one’s peril. But it is exhilarating to weave through, even slowly, an unmoving mass of vehicles, invisibly thumbing one’s nose at drivers who in other times would leave us in the dust. No, we do not really thumb our nose. But we gloat a little.
We reach the gas station that was our goal. Refilled our water packs. We made good time, it is only 9:30. Most of us had errands to do, family commitments by noon. Ernie, Fritz, and I prepare to go down Alabang-Zapote into BF’s entrance. Donnie jumps off a few minutes earlier back into Daang Hari; our single professional rider, Donnie still looks fresh after this 30-kilometer ride. Fritz breaks away in the middle of BF I think. Ernie and I continue, sometimes at fast clip, each alone in his thoughts (or iPod), sometimes in conversation. As we cross Sucat into Villanueva and Multinational, we feel at home. We take an easy ride, chatting about projects, as we make our way through Multinational. The kilometers go by without any effort it seems.
It is another Saturday ride. Next time we make a try for Tagaytay again, we promise to each other. Maybe next time.