The Race

With the music of American Flyer playing in my heart (for my iPod stayed at home with a drained battery), with the wind beating down my face (accompanied by the occasional whiff of a jeepney’s exhaust), Ernie and I raced down the forgiving slight downgrade of the service road from Merville to the Villamor overpass.  A race it was.

The service road was pleasantly sparsely occupied, I learned later that it was still one-way towards Villamor, we attacked the slight curves.  I pumped hard, racing with the jeep behind me into the narrow stretch where the only safe approach was to hog the road.  There was another reason why my speedometer flickered towards 38kph, why I flicked my gears up and down the highest level, and why I kept pushing hard even though my thigh muscles were starting to complain.  The flat road would start to climb up as we approached the bridge.   I needed all the momentum to get through the climb with manageable pain and publicly-acceptable pace.

Ernie was close behind me, oblivious to the uphill grade.  I really need to change my rear sprocket, I thought.  All the downhill elan goes to waste when I face even the slightest uphill grade, my tongue rolling out, lungs gasping.

Ernie and I navigated the chaotic multi-channel traffic of the bridge entrance.  Nice how the cars forgivingly slow down and give way to an half-outstretched hand of a cyclist.  Most cars at least.  We veer to the right to get to the right turn safely.

There is another road channel of cars coming from the South Luzon Expressway, their engines straining up the curve; this is a less than ideal section:  the vehicle drivers look to the left to avoid cars from the service road that deliberately eat into their channel, their eyes shift to their right to make sure the cars on their left are keeping a reasonable distance, eyeballs swing back and forth 180 degrees like bumblebee wings in this short stretch, like alert shoplifters watching both sides of the long aisle.  These drivers also keep constant mirror and peripheral vision watch for unpredictable motorcycles, the low-powered, loud-horned, motorbikes driven by fearless (sometimes stupid, sometime smooth) riders.  These motorbikes weave in and out of the traffic flow like oversized  flies; their reflexes are superb (most of the time) and the car driver gives up trying to avoid them.  Ernie and I are are cyclists, the lowest of the low in the order of driver priority.  We can do least damage to his vehicle hence he does not give way.  Yet, a humble hand signal or a desperate outstretched hand is all we need to do for most cars to slow down and allow us to get into the lane.

The first merging obstacle done, we now face the second one, the flow of cars coming fast, in seemingly resolute (but privately controlled) dash from the gate of Villamor to the bridge proper.  These cars cannot slow down or show sign of hesitation because the merging flow from the service road and the break from the highway do not show mercy either.  Even as the eyes flick left and right, the aut0-geared driver’s right foot whirls from accelerator to break many times a second.  They have to give the impression that they will not stop.  Both sides of the same lane, that is.  Read my eyes, see my speed, I will not slow down my friend, they intone.  It is only at the last moment that the faint-hearted taps the brakes lightly.  This intersection is a rite of passage for any new driver.  It is through this Italian macho stretch that we carbon-skinned bodies try to merge into, without stopping, because it is still uphill.  Our mirrors (for we are unusual, less than pro cyclists) are not turned in the right way for us to see incoming vehicles below the 0 degree angle.

The helmet and the dark P100 Oakley shades make me look cool and relaxed, as Ernie’s make him–though his shades are serious multiples more expensive.  Tight black tights, thigh muscles glistening in the morning sun, the image of professional cyclists.  I deliberately skip describing the middle part of my body.

As we get on the lip of the bridge, we are  fortunate.  Few cars were driving out of Villamor.  We merged quickly, waving our left hand imperiously, half aspirational.

Less than 50 meters down we get into a real traffic-signal-less intersection.  The same machismo rules govern, though the design of the intersection allows reason to prevail.  It is a T-intersection but traffic flows from all 3 sides.  Today I am fortunate, I weaved a little and was able to get through without having to stop.  I cannot see Ernie behind me, but I hardly have time to turn my head for this is a busy stretch.  We are in a race so he must be just behind me.

The stretch in front of us, just behind the navy gate, is a steep uphill climb.