“Sparks all over … scary, boy! I was afraid he’d go over!”
by: john paul lowThe dim backlight on my Casio watch showed 0435 hrs.
“My goodness,” I remember thinking, “I’ve not slept a wink!”
Instinctively, I rolled over and reached into the deep recesses of my red and black Taichi tankbag and inserted the yellow, tapered rubber pieces into the orifices. Ironically, this was the very first time my new earplugs saw the insides of my ears. They fitted well but when I adopted the foetal position the pressure on my ear-canal wiped out whatever notions I had of sleeping.
We had hit the sack at 0035 hrs and almost immediately, the deep throaty rumbles of snoring had resonated across the room. Bananaman aka Jason Toh was now flat on his back on the queen-sized bed I shared with him, and with the last of the moonlight streaming through the open windows, I could anticipate the rhythmic 80-decibel bellows with each rise and fall of his chest and abdomen. Nearby, Shaji and James Lim lay sprawled across the double divan, adding their voluminous contributions to the stereophonic cacophony of the night.
by: john paul lowThe dim backlight on my Casio watch showed 0435 hrs.
“My goodness,” I remember thinking, “I’ve not slept a wink!”
Instinctively, I rolled over and reached into the deep recesses of my red and black Taichi tankbag and inserted the yellow, tapered rubber pieces into the orifices. Ironically, this was the very first time my new earplugs saw the insides of my ears. They fitted well but when I adopted the foetal position the pressure on my ear-canal wiped out whatever notions I had of sleeping.
We had hit the sack at 0035 hrs and almost immediately, the deep throaty rumbles of snoring had resonated across the room. Bananaman aka Jason Toh was now flat on his back on the queen-sized bed I shared with him, and with the last of the moonlight streaming through the open windows, I could anticipate the rhythmic 80-decibel bellows with each rise and fall of his chest and abdomen. Nearby, Shaji and James Lim lay sprawled across the double divan, adding their voluminous contributions to the stereophonic cacophony of the night.
It was simply impossible to sleep with the earplugs in place and I drifted between dozing off and tossing about for the best spot to position my throbbing head with the strange intrusion in my ears; but then, what choice did I have? Then it happened: my right ear must have gone deaf I reasoned; there was silence. It took me a while to realise that Shaji and James had finally given up competing with Bananaman! He had won hands down. But it was no relief for me, to say the least.
The immigration officer wearing the ‘tudung’ (a conventional headgear for Muslim women), manning Kaunter 7 at the Malaysian end, seemed impatient as I walked up to the booth and asked for the new immigration forms. “Cukup lah,” she had growled, as I asked for more forms, “Apa mahu banyak, banyak?” I explained in Malay that the extra forms were for my friends. Though unconvinced, she reluctantly dumped another stack of four forms at the window – Welcome to Malaysia! I mumbled my appreciation and in a flash, I cleared the 50 metres and was astride my blue ST. I cleared Malaysian immigration and rode into Esso Gelang Patah at 0850 hrs. expecting to be the first one in.
As I topped up with the heavily-subsidised RM1.19 per litre petrol, the rider of a parked, grey Goldwing waved to me. Yes, he looked familiar even in those large dark glasses and I knew in my bones that I had met him before. As I struggled to recall his name, the tall rider in an all-black riding attire walked towards me. “Tony Chee, lah. We met at the Kota Tinggi training ride with Kang, remember?” the personable, veteran SIA pilot pointed out as he welcomed me with a vigorous handshake. “Thought you’d be the first one, right?” Did I?
A pearl-white ST drew in and stopped at pump 3. The pillion, in an all-black riding gear, dismounted and removed her white full-faced helmet. No, she didn’t look familiar to both of us. The rider, dressed to the nines in black, casually pushed up his tinted visor and, ... yes, it was Edmund and his wife Lisa. Once the introductions were done, Tony, Kelvin Ang, and I oggled over the '102 Dalmatians' stickers on the panniers of the ST. I counted eight Dalmatians on each box making a grand total of sixteen. “So, still a long way to go, Edmund,” I thought. At 0910 hrs, the pearl-white ST zipped out of the petrol station towards Perling. “Got to do some banking,” explained Edmund.
I did some banking myself with Kelvin Ang trading his excess RM216 for my SGD100. Kelvin pulled out his camera and in the next second he was behind his precious Vtec smiling into the lens of his Nikon F90 after which he volunteered some shots of me and my ST. Tony remembered his mini Leica hidden somewhere in his huge panniers and in a flash, he placed it in my hands and there I was shooting the last few frames of him sitting on the oversized foot-pedals of his Goldwing from my ground position.
By 0930 hrs the full team was assembled: 27-year old Vincent Lim, an armaments specialist technician on his new GSXR750; 29-year old James Lim Teck Leong who is in the chemical gas industry on his new CBR929; Bernard Sim, the OCS PTI on his maroon ST; Shaji, a warehousing specialist on his Steed400; Kelvin Ang, a mechanical engineering major in NTU on his Vtec; Tony Chee on his Goldwing; Shyam, a computer science major in NUS on his new VFR800 with Danielle riding two-up; Sky on his green ZXR400; the writer on his ST and Kelly and 9-month old Christopher bringing up the rear in their trusty, white Nissan Sunny.
In 10 minutes, the motley crew of 12 famished adventurers swarmed Perling’s Restoran Queen Park for a quick tucker-in. It was crowded with tourists who shared the same cravings as us. Amidst the spread of Perling’s best breakfast servings, new friendships were formed and old ones inching another step forward.
Traffic along the Pasir Gudang Highway was light and we made it in double quick time to the turn-off near Carrefour and into the busier Highway 3 heading towards Kota Tinggi and Mersing. While Vincent and James who were both on their first ride with StormRiders, stopped several times to check the route, Shyam took his VFR to the head of the pack. Five kilometers from the Sebana Resort turn off, traffic slowed down to a crawl and we noticed the all-too-familiar white jeep and men in neon-green reflective vests selectively waving offenders to the side of the road.
Yes, you guessed it: that shining blue VFR was parked on its side stand, its two panniers and one top box absorbing the 31 degree heat. Shyam was meekly in dialogue with one of the men in the neon-green vests. He was aware that in situations like this, conventional wisdom requires no arguments or explanations – RM50 speak volumes on your behalf and you are on your way in a jiffy! Shyam wisely did just that and went on his way much to the relief of Danielle.
“Sparks all over … scary, boy! I was afraid he’d go over,” Sky explained, wiping another streak of perspiration from his forehead. Riding right behind Vincent, he had witnessed the screaming yellow GSXR750 go down at a left bend on the twisting highway. The centrifugal force dragged 230 kg of metal right across the road, leaving a deep impression of 5 meters on the tarmac. Then it spun another 30 meters on the gravel before coming to an unscheduled stop right at the twisted base of a traffic directional sign with part of the machine overhanging a 2-meter slope. Vincent skidded behind his precious possession and would have gone over the incline had it not been for the yellow and black road sign!
While some of us took up positions on both ends of the highway to slow traffic down, Sky, Kelvin, Shyam and Tony went to the assistance of the stunned Vincent. He stood up unsteadily on his own and all at once, attention was focused on the GSXR. Shyam offered him a drink of water while the others lifted the bike onto its side stand. There was an ominous dark patch of fresh engine oil stain on the gravel where the GSXR had ground to an ignominious stop. “It’s engine oil,” one of them said, pointing to the source of the leakage at the base of the engine block. There was a slight fracture in the casing but we were sure it could be fixed by Sky.
Sky called and briefed James and Edmund who had gone on ahead, unaware of the events that were unfolding, and wife Kelly who was sweeping the rear. At 1208 hrs, the welcome sight of the Nissan loomed into view and while Tony and Jason played daddy to little Chris, Kelly pulled out her first-aid kit and after donning surgical gloves and examining the two large abrasions on Vincent’s left knee cap, she concluded, “This is good; this is nothing.” A very docile and shell-shocked Vincent sat on the rear seat and stuck his left leg out while the NUH nurse gave it a professional touch complete with antiseptic, gauzes and bandages.
Out in the sun, the little bundle of joy bared his two lower incisor teeth and screamed for his absentee parents. The GSXR suffered minimal damage because Vincent was prudent enough to have four pieces of personally-imported engine protectors installed before the ride. The leaking engine block was sealed with contact metal cement that hardened in 20 minutes to a vice-like grip, while the depleted engine oil was topped up on the spot. We discovered that Sky packs the boot of the Nissan with all manner of paraphernalia for emergency situations. Three cheers for him !
By 1235 hrs we were glad to get out of the searing mid-day heat, riding more modestly this time to a nearby Shell petrol station where the GSXR had another opportunity to bring its engine oil to the top line.
Our bikes were neatly parked outside Mersing’s third-generation Cantonese restaurant by 1340 hrs. “I know you,” the middle-aged woman owner said to me, “you’ve been here before.” The waitress confirmed our orders, “Stirred fried bitter gourd with pork ribs, sweet and sour pork, steamed grouper, a soup and kangkong in chilli.” The tail-end of the lunch time crowd took its toll on waiting time so Tony found himself something more productive to do rather than to sit idle at the table. He quietly slipped out of “the oldest Chinese restaurant in Mersing” and promptly dumped himself into a barber’s chair some 200 meters away and before he knew it, he had parted with RM5.00 for a neat haircut and another RM2.90 for a pair of Bata Japanese slippers.
I took the hint and ten minutes later, I too returned with a pair of size 11.5 Japanese slippers for RM3.00. I was just in time to stick my chopsticks into the remaining half of the bitter-gourd with pork-ribs and the steamed fish. Then in quick succession the sweet and sour pork, soup and chilli kangkong were served and just as quickly they disappeared from the plates. Everyone agreed that this third-generation restaurant’s cooking was really worth every cent of the RM13.00 we each paid.
Kali’s Guesthouse, situated along the inner coastal road was a welcome sight for us especially after all the day’s excitement. While we parked our bikes under the shade of the tall casuarina trees fronting the Balinese-style chalets, Edmund lovingly stationed his under an elevated unit, away from the sun and sea-breeze. “These are people who really love their bikes,” Tony pointed out. “See, Edmund even removed the contents from his panniers and left the boxes open to air them.”
Once the towels and soap were issued, the early birds headed for a refreshing cold water shower while the others chose to relax in easy chairs outdoors and enjoy the caressing breeze and good company. The heat had taken its toll on me; I felt enervated and I just had to be the first one in the showers. What a relief a cold shower can do to one's tired muscles! As the first streams of chlorinated water trickled down to my feet, I felt my body recovering almost instantaneously. The road-dust, the grime, the body salts and dead skin tissues were meticulously scrubbed off and carried away in the tributaries of waste water running into the sump pit.
I emerged from the bath feeling rejuvenated and reborn and found Tony, Shaji, James, Vincent and Shyam engaged in an animated conversation. "Nice breeze," someone said. "Yeah, I like the view; it helps you relax," added another.
"This is the life, man. So who is next?" I asked pointing to the vacant showers. The reticent Vincent decided it was not going to be him. Nursing his injuries and deep in thought, he cut a picture of deep and unfathomable meditation. "Perhaps, the salt water at Air Papan would expedite the healing of his lacerated wounds," I pondered aloud.
The foot imprints of Sky, Kelly, Shaji, Shyam, Danielle, Bananaman and Vincent marked the soft sands at the Air Papan Beach as they strolled to the waters' edge and tested the temperature of the rolling surf. The next second, they were frolicking in the out-going tide laughing, chatting and trying to make sense of their own swimming strokes. Little Chris was safely tucked in the tanned arms of his parents. "This is the first time he's swimming in the sea, you know," Kelly proudly proclaimed to all and sundry.
“Come, let’s have a teh-tarik over here,” suggested Tony as we headed towards the beach-front restaurant. James and Bernard plonked their tired bodies onto the nearest chairs and soon our conversation was spiced with beverages, cold drinks, kuih buloh and other tid-bits generously contributed by everyone at the table. It was good to be able to relax and appreciate the slower pace of life, to breathe the salt-flavoured air, to listen to the crashing waves and take in a scene reminiscent of the old Changi Point beach of days gone by. It was interesting too, to be able to pick the brains of those present on bikes and biking and listen to them share generously about their proud possessions.
Tony Chee, for example, had a day earlier, walked through customs at Changi Airport with a pair of personally-imported Bridgestone Exedra tyres from Auckland, New Zealand for his Goldwing after reading the glowing reports on the net. “If they stop me, I’d have paid the 3% GST willingly. I’ll get it fixed on Monday at MaxSpeed,” he explained, further pointing out that these are the best tyres for his Goldwing. He had also picked up a KTM125 at a bargain price of $800 and after investing another $700 to modify and spruce up the KTM, he is now waiting for his very first trailing adventure but he acknowledges that time is a premium because he flies so often.
Kelvin is also a recent XR400 owner and like Tony, he can’t wait to ride the trails, spring the jumps, splash himself and his XR with real mud and give it a good wash for RM5.00 in Gelang Patah. For now, Kelvin wisely parks his XR on the third level of the multi-storied carpark out of sight of his mother – mum’s the word! One wonders whether the heavens would open up should she find out? James who seemed all caught up in the conversation, was seriously thinking of getting himself a trail bike too.
We returned to the enchanting Kali’s Guesthouse to a beautiful sky, gentle breeze and softly-swaying casuarina trees. It was enough to whet our appetites for the night’s seafood BBQ. Sky and a few others promptly zipped off into town to load up with tid-bits while the rest of us diagonally-parked our precious machines on the grassy strip right in front of our rooms. Bernard and Kelvin conscientiously covered their ST and Vtec and it started a chain-reaction with the others following suit.
At 1840 hrs, Sky and the rest had returned with their purchases. Bananaman found a nail in his rear tyre after he felt his Vmax rumbling along mysteriously. True to form, Sky pulled out his bag of tricks from the boot of the Nissan, and once the Vmax was on its main-stand, we gathered around to be instructed on the finer points of repairing a tubeless tyre. “First, you must pull out the nail,” he pointed out, as the Leatherman pliers eased out the offending nail. “This tool will roughen the sides of the puncture on the tyre so that the plugs will hold.” In less than 30 seconds, he was done and the excess rubber plugs were snipped off. Out came the foot-pump and soon about 20 psi of air filled the insides of the expanding rear tyre.
“Ride down to the nearby Caltex station and top up the air,” he advised Bananaman who pointed his Vmax towards town. He returned a while later with a more than satisfied grin to proclaim that Sky had done a good job on his first-love. We heard about Edmund’s electrical pump and up-market tyre repair kit so we pestered him into giving us a demonstration of the device. As several of us crowded around his ST and blocking out his ‘102 Dalmatians’, Edmund carefully removed his $1000 imported Corbin seat and laid out the pump and his repair kit. “The electrical extension cable with the cigarette-lighter attachment was fixed by my friend at MaxSpeed,” he began. “Now you fix the pump to this end, start the engine and …”
We learnt a lot from these two gurus that evening and already Bernard and a few of us had decided on the spot that we just had to get ourselves a repair kit from Ah Boy’s shop. Talk about a sales pitch!
The well-chilled 1999 Hans Wirsching and 1997 Franken white and 1997 Le Vilte red flowed copiously into our glasses as the last rays of twilight disappeared below the horizon. “We must have wine with seafood,” Tony had explained. “Actually, I had packed six bottles into my Goldwing but … ,” as he emptied the last drops of the dry Wirsching into my glass after making sure that everyone had a go with the German wines. It sure went well with the seafood. Shaji downed the first of his subsequent six cans of Singapore’s favourite beer and good-naturedly offered the other four cans to the rest of us.
As the first rush of wine and beer washed down the fried rice and barbecued fish into a small section of our stomachs, the lively conversation began. We covered a whole range of topics including bike insurance, Thailand and Nakhon rides, Sky’s hair-raising experience in Myanmar, James’ accident in KL, brakes overheating on the downward journey on Cameron and Genting Highland, and as I scribbled notes, Shyam, carrying a large can of mosquito spray proclaimed me the “resident scribe”.
Like Shyam and Danielle, Kelvin was well-prepared for these little mozzies. He hung a portable mosquito-coil holder complete with a smoking coil on his hip wherever he went. It worked! Those in air-conditioned rooms were assured of a mosquito-free haven while Tony sprayed the room he shared with Vincent with a top-of-the-range spray used to sanitise Boeing747s cabins. But then again, we were not exactly bothered by mosquitoes in our non air-conditioned rooms.
The barbecued squids and small prawns came skewered in short bamboo sticks. As we tucked in these denizens of the deep and went for refills of fried rice, barbecued fish, pineapples and water-melons, someone commented that the squids were not properly cooked. So Radhi the 47-year old caretaker of the resort, obliged by putting them back into the dying fires of the charcoal grill.
The bespecstacled Mohamed Radhi is an interesting person. He had taken on his present RM500-a-month job only a month ago after working for 12 years as a medical laboratory technologist. His computer literacy began back in way back in 1978, and believe you me when I say that he has bountiful knowledge. He is also well-informed about Malaysian speed-traps and how they work! On how to tackle the mosquitoes, he had this advice, “Don’t curse the mosquitoes; light a coil.”
When the squids and prawns returned to the tables, Radhi, brought in a jug of freshly-brewed coffee and a jug of tea. As the titillating aroma of coffee filled the dining hall, we congratulated him on brewing the coffee and he proudly announced, ”The recipe is a house secret!” We began a new conversation topic speculating how the coffee could have been brewed. Various theories were tossed up until someone with sensitive tastebuds suggested that it was a combination of Nescafe and powdered coffee. He proposed his theory to Radhi who turned and headed for the kitchen wondering how we had managed to crack the secret so easily. Anyway, try the ‘secret house recipe’ yourself and see what we mean.
By 2240 hrs, Tony was dozing off while Shaji was happily on to his sixth Tiger Beer. The pilot explained that he had just flown in from Auckland and his body-clock was registering 0340 hrs New Zealand time – so, it was way past his bedtime. He excused himself and hit the sack immediately. By 2320 hrs, Chelsea was leading Sunderland 2-0 in the live broadcast on TV. Still, our conversation continued as vigorously as before with Bananaman, Kelvin, Bernard, Sky, Shyam, Vincent, James, Shaji and the writer contributing their 2-cents worth.
Kelly strode in with a wide-eyed Chris in her arms just after midnight and instantly, Sky dutifully played out his parenting role! Shouldn’t little Chris be in his cot? By 0021 hrs, Maccann had scored and Sunderland had taken a 3-2 lead over Chelsea. My eye lids were meeting more regularly now and I had counted the first twenty of my sheep.
Darkness overcame me in twenty minutes as I flopped horizontally on the same bed, in the same spot and in the same room as I did four years ago on a Nature Society(Singapore) bird-watching outing. Sleep finally came and my subconscious mind dug deep into a fathomless memory bank and painted a dream of a long-forgotten past. I relished the mental images only for them to disappear just as suddenly. Somehow, it didn’t seem right; there was absolute silence.
My hazy eyes were greeted by the clear but subdued daylight seeping into the room. I thought I heard a cock crow and as I turned over to my left, Bananaman was not there! I scanned my right – Shaji and James were nowhere to be seen. Peace at last, I remember telling myself and immediately melted back into dreamland till Tony’s distinctive voice roused me from my sleep.
It was 0735 hrs and as I sauntered out to join him and the others just outside the chalet, I heard him tell the others, “I was up at 5:30.” He explained that going by Auckland’s time, it was already 1030 hrs. and he was usually up by 0800 hrs there. “So, slept well or not?” he asked me in earnest. Shaji was out there somewhere with his trusty Minolta SLR catching the sunrise. He returned a short while later, a disappointed camera buff, “There was no sunrise.”
After Tony, Shaji, Vincent and I had our first shot of caffeine I popped under the cold showers and emerged 20 minutes later refreshed and ready for the long day ahead. Tony had earlier used our shower because there was none in his elevated chalet. Sky, Kelly, Bernard, Kelvin, Shyam and Danielle had not yet made their appearance and Edmund’s pearl-white ‘102 Dalmatians’ was nowhere to be seen.
Someone suggested going for breakfast and the next moment we were heading towards Mersing town near the roundabout for roti canai. Unfortunately, the roti canai stall was not open for business and Tony suggested the packed kampong style roti canai stall one kilometre from our chalets. “It must be good,” he reasoned, “because there are so many people and cars there.”
It was 0830 hrs when the waiter wearing an apron brought us our teh-tarik, bawang-telor, kosong and the gravy. Tony had secured a table already occupied by a lone elderly Malay man and he got the conversation going by asking where the 70-year old was from. From there on, the more relaxed senior citizen became more forthcoming in chatting with us. He ate there every morning, he said, and the telor bawang and teh tarik cost only RM1.50 ! A kosong went for RM0.40 As he tucked into his telor sardin and sipped his teh-tarik, we could see that he really appreciated the kampong style preparation. We shared the same verdict.
Kelvin and Shaji who had turned back from the coffee-shop at the roundabout, found us relishing our second piece of roti canai. When his orders came, Kelvin woofed down 1 telor sardin, 1 kosong, 1 bowl of ‘must-try’ lontong and teh-tarik and in the process he outperformed the Bananaman who only managed 1 telor bawang, 1 kosong and a teh-tarik.
Back in his room, Sky had received my SMS on his handphone. The words ‘roti canai’ brought him out of his stupor and in no time at all, the white Nissan was parked right in front of the stall with Kelly and little Chris in tow. “Wah lau eh, my stomach was rumbling when I read your SMS about the roti canai,” he explained his sudden appearance as the patient waiter took his family’s breakfast order.
I messaged Bernard to meet us at the kampong stall while someone called his handphone. “No response; he must have switched off the phone,” he reported. Neither did I get a response from Bernard. Perhaps, it was not difficult to understand why. Sky, Bernard, Kelvin, Shyam and Danielle had chatted into the early hours of the morning and by 0235 hrs they had decided it was time to adopt a horizontal position – sleep had gotten the better of them.
Sky’s handphone buzzed. In between tucking in his roti canai and drowning it with his teh-tarik, he gave Kang the direction to Kali’s Guesthouse. It seemed Kang was doing a morning ride with some Harley owners and they were keen to check out the Balinese resort. Our table was outrageously jam-packed with cups, glasses, plates, bowls, forks and spoons and with the second and third helpings we were tucking into, the mountain of crockery had to be relocated to a ledge just by the roadside when new orders came in. Ominous dark clouds hung low over the sea and a few drops of drizzle pelted our helmets left out on the open ledge. We decided it was time to make a bee-line for the security of Kali’s. Tony and Jason napped while Kelly busied herself tending to Vincent’s raw abrasions. “Don’t throw the pair of torn jeans away,” he was advised, “hang them up as a souvenir.”
At 1135 hrs we left Kali’s Guesthouse on the home-bound journey. Sky had chosen Highway 50 for its twisting and undulating terrain that ran through freshly-tarred roads that were sandwiched between oil-palm plantations and secondary jungle. What a welcome change from the boring Highway 3 on our out-bound journey the day before. After 90 kilometres of exhilaration, we regrouped by the roadside, 50 meters from a traffic junction.
The locals in Kluang popped their heads out of windows or stood outside their terraced shophouses to stare in disbelief at our unannounced arrival. Sky, Edmund and Lisa nonchalantly lit up and added to the pollution that was already beginning to choke the heated air. 5 minutes after we crossed the traffic junction, we were spot on at a petrol station situated at the fringe of the turn-off into the southbound North-South Highway. Sky wanted to be sure we had enough fuel in our tanks to take us to Perling for lunch.
Once we hit the highway, we opened up our throttles and on some stretches, James hit 260 kmph on his Fireblade while Sky was so far in front that the carbon monoxide molecules from his exhaust would have long vaporised into the rising thermals before we had a chance to smell them! We rode into the carpark of Restoran Queen Park at 1400 hrs and after a more than satisfying lunch, James led us to the Wak Car Wash Centre near Leisure Farm in Gelang Patah.
There, seven bikes, with the exception of Vincent’s GSXR750 and Edmund’s ST - he had left for home - lined up for the most thorough bike wash in Johor. “You know Boon Siew; he started off washing lorries for 10 cts a vehicle,” Tony shared with me, as the boy who couldn’t have been more than 16 years old, doused his Goldwing with shampoo and began the laborious task of washing our bikes. “People like him will make it in life,” he added. We occupied the corridor outside the carwash centre and each of us replenished our dehydrated bodies with cold drinks from the fridge. The late afternoon heat was taking its toll on us and we wished we could lie down in cool comfort or at least jump into a cold shower.
The boy barked instructions to three other workers – a Malay, a Chinese and an Indian. He was really meticulous as his sharp eyes darted to every nook and corner of our bikes, pointing out a spot here and another one there that had not been shampooed or washed clean. He himself was the epitome of the model worker as he squatted, stood up and prowled around my ST and Bernard’s, scrubbing, washing and polishing the metal parts with Autosol! All our bikes rolled off the tarmac with a tyre shine to boot; can you beat that? In all, we were there for 90 minutes and throughout that time, the workers never stopped working on the parade of bikes.
By 1645 hrs they were done. Some of us felt guilty that they had worked so hard and long for just RM5.00 per bike so we did the next best thing – tips, of course. “Don’t spoil the market, leh,” I heard someone say in jest. No, we were not spoiling the market; we were rewarding hard work with just wages. Not once did we detect any discontent in their body language or speech. On the contrary, they smiled and laughed throughout though they were working under such adverse conditions. They were also shockingly polite and terribly obliging as they rescrubbed, rewashed or repolished any spot that didn’t meet up with our fancy. A job well-done boys!
Our last stop was at Sky’s spanking new and almost completed terraced two-storey house in Gelang Patah. “We’d wanted a corner unit with a garden but by the time we came back two weeks later to sign our papers, the unit was already taken,” Sky told us. So he and Kelly had picked this corner unit without a garden and paid RM176,000 for it two years ago.
“Hey, hey, watch your side-stand,” he warned after the house-proud owner returned from an inspection of his prized possession with us in tow. Indeed, our side-stands had sunk one centimetre into the freshly laid tarred road. As we roared towards the familiar Esso petrol station, we did a mental juggling of figures; RM176,000 translated into something like SGD85,000 and a resale 3-room HDB unit would set us back by SGD166,000 at least! Lucky bloke, this Sky, earning Singapore dollars and spending Malaysian ringgit! How we envied him and Kelly – and little Chris, he didn’t have to serve national service when he’s 18!
All too soon, we were at the Singapore end of the 2nd Link at 1730 hrs thinking in Singapore dollars all the way home. Thanks, everyone, for the wonderful memories and especially your contributions to the ‘never a dull moment when you ride with Sky.’
The immigration officer wearing the ‘tudung’ (a conventional headgear for Muslim women), manning Kaunter 7 at the Malaysian end, seemed impatient as I walked up to the booth and asked for the new immigration forms. “Cukup lah,” she had growled, as I asked for more forms, “Apa mahu banyak, banyak?” I explained in Malay that the extra forms were for my friends. Though unconvinced, she reluctantly dumped another stack of four forms at the window – Welcome to Malaysia! I mumbled my appreciation and in a flash, I cleared the 50 metres and was astride my blue ST. I cleared Malaysian immigration and rode into Esso Gelang Patah at 0850 hrs. expecting to be the first one in.
As I topped up with the heavily-subsidised RM1.19 per litre petrol, the rider of a parked, grey Goldwing waved to me. Yes, he looked familiar even in those large dark glasses and I knew in my bones that I had met him before. As I struggled to recall his name, the tall rider in an all-black riding attire walked towards me. “Tony Chee, lah. We met at the Kota Tinggi training ride with Kang, remember?” the personable, veteran SIA pilot pointed out as he welcomed me with a vigorous handshake. “Thought you’d be the first one, right?” Did I?
A pearl-white ST drew in and stopped at pump 3. The pillion, in an all-black riding gear, dismounted and removed her white full-faced helmet. No, she didn’t look familiar to both of us. The rider, dressed to the nines in black, casually pushed up his tinted visor and, ... yes, it was Edmund and his wife Lisa. Once the introductions were done, Tony, Kelvin Ang, and I oggled over the '102 Dalmatians' stickers on the panniers of the ST. I counted eight Dalmatians on each box making a grand total of sixteen. “So, still a long way to go, Edmund,” I thought. At 0910 hrs, the pearl-white ST zipped out of the petrol station towards Perling. “Got to do some banking,” explained Edmund.
I did some banking myself with Kelvin Ang trading his excess RM216 for my SGD100. Kelvin pulled out his camera and in the next second he was behind his precious Vtec smiling into the lens of his Nikon F90 after which he volunteered some shots of me and my ST. Tony remembered his mini Leica hidden somewhere in his huge panniers and in a flash, he placed it in my hands and there I was shooting the last few frames of him sitting on the oversized foot-pedals of his Goldwing from my ground position.
By 0930 hrs the full team was assembled: 27-year old Vincent Lim, an armaments specialist technician on his new GSXR750; 29-year old James Lim Teck Leong who is in the chemical gas industry on his new CBR929; Bernard Sim, the OCS PTI on his maroon ST; Shaji, a warehousing specialist on his Steed400; Kelvin Ang, a mechanical engineering major in NTU on his Vtec; Tony Chee on his Goldwing; Shyam, a computer science major in NUS on his new VFR800 with Danielle riding two-up; Sky on his green ZXR400; the writer on his ST and Kelly and 9-month old Christopher bringing up the rear in their trusty, white Nissan Sunny.
In 10 minutes, the motley crew of 12 famished adventurers swarmed Perling’s Restoran Queen Park for a quick tucker-in. It was crowded with tourists who shared the same cravings as us. Amidst the spread of Perling’s best breakfast servings, new friendships were formed and old ones inching another step forward.
Traffic along the Pasir Gudang Highway was light and we made it in double quick time to the turn-off near Carrefour and into the busier Highway 3 heading towards Kota Tinggi and Mersing. While Vincent and James who were both on their first ride with StormRiders, stopped several times to check the route, Shyam took his VFR to the head of the pack. Five kilometers from the Sebana Resort turn off, traffic slowed down to a crawl and we noticed the all-too-familiar white jeep and men in neon-green reflective vests selectively waving offenders to the side of the road.
Yes, you guessed it: that shining blue VFR was parked on its side stand, its two panniers and one top box absorbing the 31 degree heat. Shyam was meekly in dialogue with one of the men in the neon-green vests. He was aware that in situations like this, conventional wisdom requires no arguments or explanations – RM50 speak volumes on your behalf and you are on your way in a jiffy! Shyam wisely did just that and went on his way much to the relief of Danielle.
“Sparks all over … scary, boy! I was afraid he’d go over,” Sky explained, wiping another streak of perspiration from his forehead. Riding right behind Vincent, he had witnessed the screaming yellow GSXR750 go down at a left bend on the twisting highway. The centrifugal force dragged 230 kg of metal right across the road, leaving a deep impression of 5 meters on the tarmac. Then it spun another 30 meters on the gravel before coming to an unscheduled stop right at the twisted base of a traffic directional sign with part of the machine overhanging a 2-meter slope. Vincent skidded behind his precious possession and would have gone over the incline had it not been for the yellow and black road sign!
While some of us took up positions on both ends of the highway to slow traffic down, Sky, Kelvin, Shyam and Tony went to the assistance of the stunned Vincent. He stood up unsteadily on his own and all at once, attention was focused on the GSXR. Shyam offered him a drink of water while the others lifted the bike onto its side stand. There was an ominous dark patch of fresh engine oil stain on the gravel where the GSXR had ground to an ignominious stop. “It’s engine oil,” one of them said, pointing to the source of the leakage at the base of the engine block. There was a slight fracture in the casing but we were sure it could be fixed by Sky.
Sky called and briefed James and Edmund who had gone on ahead, unaware of the events that were unfolding, and wife Kelly who was sweeping the rear. At 1208 hrs, the welcome sight of the Nissan loomed into view and while Tony and Jason played daddy to little Chris, Kelly pulled out her first-aid kit and after donning surgical gloves and examining the two large abrasions on Vincent’s left knee cap, she concluded, “This is good; this is nothing.” A very docile and shell-shocked Vincent sat on the rear seat and stuck his left leg out while the NUH nurse gave it a professional touch complete with antiseptic, gauzes and bandages.
Out in the sun, the little bundle of joy bared his two lower incisor teeth and screamed for his absentee parents. The GSXR suffered minimal damage because Vincent was prudent enough to have four pieces of personally-imported engine protectors installed before the ride. The leaking engine block was sealed with contact metal cement that hardened in 20 minutes to a vice-like grip, while the depleted engine oil was topped up on the spot. We discovered that Sky packs the boot of the Nissan with all manner of paraphernalia for emergency situations. Three cheers for him !
By 1235 hrs we were glad to get out of the searing mid-day heat, riding more modestly this time to a nearby Shell petrol station where the GSXR had another opportunity to bring its engine oil to the top line.
Our bikes were neatly parked outside Mersing’s third-generation Cantonese restaurant by 1340 hrs. “I know you,” the middle-aged woman owner said to me, “you’ve been here before.” The waitress confirmed our orders, “Stirred fried bitter gourd with pork ribs, sweet and sour pork, steamed grouper, a soup and kangkong in chilli.” The tail-end of the lunch time crowd took its toll on waiting time so Tony found himself something more productive to do rather than to sit idle at the table. He quietly slipped out of “the oldest Chinese restaurant in Mersing” and promptly dumped himself into a barber’s chair some 200 meters away and before he knew it, he had parted with RM5.00 for a neat haircut and another RM2.90 for a pair of Bata Japanese slippers.
I took the hint and ten minutes later, I too returned with a pair of size 11.5 Japanese slippers for RM3.00. I was just in time to stick my chopsticks into the remaining half of the bitter-gourd with pork-ribs and the steamed fish. Then in quick succession the sweet and sour pork, soup and chilli kangkong were served and just as quickly they disappeared from the plates. Everyone agreed that this third-generation restaurant’s cooking was really worth every cent of the RM13.00 we each paid.
Kali’s Guesthouse, situated along the inner coastal road was a welcome sight for us especially after all the day’s excitement. While we parked our bikes under the shade of the tall casuarina trees fronting the Balinese-style chalets, Edmund lovingly stationed his under an elevated unit, away from the sun and sea-breeze. “These are people who really love their bikes,” Tony pointed out. “See, Edmund even removed the contents from his panniers and left the boxes open to air them.”
Once the towels and soap were issued, the early birds headed for a refreshing cold water shower while the others chose to relax in easy chairs outdoors and enjoy the caressing breeze and good company. The heat had taken its toll on me; I felt enervated and I just had to be the first one in the showers. What a relief a cold shower can do to one's tired muscles! As the first streams of chlorinated water trickled down to my feet, I felt my body recovering almost instantaneously. The road-dust, the grime, the body salts and dead skin tissues were meticulously scrubbed off and carried away in the tributaries of waste water running into the sump pit.
I emerged from the bath feeling rejuvenated and reborn and found Tony, Shaji, James, Vincent and Shyam engaged in an animated conversation. "Nice breeze," someone said. "Yeah, I like the view; it helps you relax," added another.
"This is the life, man. So who is next?" I asked pointing to the vacant showers. The reticent Vincent decided it was not going to be him. Nursing his injuries and deep in thought, he cut a picture of deep and unfathomable meditation. "Perhaps, the salt water at Air Papan would expedite the healing of his lacerated wounds," I pondered aloud.
The foot imprints of Sky, Kelly, Shaji, Shyam, Danielle, Bananaman and Vincent marked the soft sands at the Air Papan Beach as they strolled to the waters' edge and tested the temperature of the rolling surf. The next second, they were frolicking in the out-going tide laughing, chatting and trying to make sense of their own swimming strokes. Little Chris was safely tucked in the tanned arms of his parents. "This is the first time he's swimming in the sea, you know," Kelly proudly proclaimed to all and sundry.
“Come, let’s have a teh-tarik over here,” suggested Tony as we headed towards the beach-front restaurant. James and Bernard plonked their tired bodies onto the nearest chairs and soon our conversation was spiced with beverages, cold drinks, kuih buloh and other tid-bits generously contributed by everyone at the table. It was good to be able to relax and appreciate the slower pace of life, to breathe the salt-flavoured air, to listen to the crashing waves and take in a scene reminiscent of the old Changi Point beach of days gone by. It was interesting too, to be able to pick the brains of those present on bikes and biking and listen to them share generously about their proud possessions.
Tony Chee, for example, had a day earlier, walked through customs at Changi Airport with a pair of personally-imported Bridgestone Exedra tyres from Auckland, New Zealand for his Goldwing after reading the glowing reports on the net. “If they stop me, I’d have paid the 3% GST willingly. I’ll get it fixed on Monday at MaxSpeed,” he explained, further pointing out that these are the best tyres for his Goldwing. He had also picked up a KTM125 at a bargain price of $800 and after investing another $700 to modify and spruce up the KTM, he is now waiting for his very first trailing adventure but he acknowledges that time is a premium because he flies so often.
Kelvin is also a recent XR400 owner and like Tony, he can’t wait to ride the trails, spring the jumps, splash himself and his XR with real mud and give it a good wash for RM5.00 in Gelang Patah. For now, Kelvin wisely parks his XR on the third level of the multi-storied carpark out of sight of his mother – mum’s the word! One wonders whether the heavens would open up should she find out? James who seemed all caught up in the conversation, was seriously thinking of getting himself a trail bike too.
We returned to the enchanting Kali’s Guesthouse to a beautiful sky, gentle breeze and softly-swaying casuarina trees. It was enough to whet our appetites for the night’s seafood BBQ. Sky and a few others promptly zipped off into town to load up with tid-bits while the rest of us diagonally-parked our precious machines on the grassy strip right in front of our rooms. Bernard and Kelvin conscientiously covered their ST and Vtec and it started a chain-reaction with the others following suit.
At 1840 hrs, Sky and the rest had returned with their purchases. Bananaman found a nail in his rear tyre after he felt his Vmax rumbling along mysteriously. True to form, Sky pulled out his bag of tricks from the boot of the Nissan, and once the Vmax was on its main-stand, we gathered around to be instructed on the finer points of repairing a tubeless tyre. “First, you must pull out the nail,” he pointed out, as the Leatherman pliers eased out the offending nail. “This tool will roughen the sides of the puncture on the tyre so that the plugs will hold.” In less than 30 seconds, he was done and the excess rubber plugs were snipped off. Out came the foot-pump and soon about 20 psi of air filled the insides of the expanding rear tyre.
“Ride down to the nearby Caltex station and top up the air,” he advised Bananaman who pointed his Vmax towards town. He returned a while later with a more than satisfied grin to proclaim that Sky had done a good job on his first-love. We heard about Edmund’s electrical pump and up-market tyre repair kit so we pestered him into giving us a demonstration of the device. As several of us crowded around his ST and blocking out his ‘102 Dalmatians’, Edmund carefully removed his $1000 imported Corbin seat and laid out the pump and his repair kit. “The electrical extension cable with the cigarette-lighter attachment was fixed by my friend at MaxSpeed,” he began. “Now you fix the pump to this end, start the engine and …”
We learnt a lot from these two gurus that evening and already Bernard and a few of us had decided on the spot that we just had to get ourselves a repair kit from Ah Boy’s shop. Talk about a sales pitch!
The well-chilled 1999 Hans Wirsching and 1997 Franken white and 1997 Le Vilte red flowed copiously into our glasses as the last rays of twilight disappeared below the horizon. “We must have wine with seafood,” Tony had explained. “Actually, I had packed six bottles into my Goldwing but … ,” as he emptied the last drops of the dry Wirsching into my glass after making sure that everyone had a go with the German wines. It sure went well with the seafood. Shaji downed the first of his subsequent six cans of Singapore’s favourite beer and good-naturedly offered the other four cans to the rest of us.
As the first rush of wine and beer washed down the fried rice and barbecued fish into a small section of our stomachs, the lively conversation began. We covered a whole range of topics including bike insurance, Thailand and Nakhon rides, Sky’s hair-raising experience in Myanmar, James’ accident in KL, brakes overheating on the downward journey on Cameron and Genting Highland, and as I scribbled notes, Shyam, carrying a large can of mosquito spray proclaimed me the “resident scribe”.
Like Shyam and Danielle, Kelvin was well-prepared for these little mozzies. He hung a portable mosquito-coil holder complete with a smoking coil on his hip wherever he went. It worked! Those in air-conditioned rooms were assured of a mosquito-free haven while Tony sprayed the room he shared with Vincent with a top-of-the-range spray used to sanitise Boeing747s cabins. But then again, we were not exactly bothered by mosquitoes in our non air-conditioned rooms.
The barbecued squids and small prawns came skewered in short bamboo sticks. As we tucked in these denizens of the deep and went for refills of fried rice, barbecued fish, pineapples and water-melons, someone commented that the squids were not properly cooked. So Radhi the 47-year old caretaker of the resort, obliged by putting them back into the dying fires of the charcoal grill.
The bespecstacled Mohamed Radhi is an interesting person. He had taken on his present RM500-a-month job only a month ago after working for 12 years as a medical laboratory technologist. His computer literacy began back in way back in 1978, and believe you me when I say that he has bountiful knowledge. He is also well-informed about Malaysian speed-traps and how they work! On how to tackle the mosquitoes, he had this advice, “Don’t curse the mosquitoes; light a coil.”
When the squids and prawns returned to the tables, Radhi, brought in a jug of freshly-brewed coffee and a jug of tea. As the titillating aroma of coffee filled the dining hall, we congratulated him on brewing the coffee and he proudly announced, ”The recipe is a house secret!” We began a new conversation topic speculating how the coffee could have been brewed. Various theories were tossed up until someone with sensitive tastebuds suggested that it was a combination of Nescafe and powdered coffee. He proposed his theory to Radhi who turned and headed for the kitchen wondering how we had managed to crack the secret so easily. Anyway, try the ‘secret house recipe’ yourself and see what we mean.
By 2240 hrs, Tony was dozing off while Shaji was happily on to his sixth Tiger Beer. The pilot explained that he had just flown in from Auckland and his body-clock was registering 0340 hrs New Zealand time – so, it was way past his bedtime. He excused himself and hit the sack immediately. By 2320 hrs, Chelsea was leading Sunderland 2-0 in the live broadcast on TV. Still, our conversation continued as vigorously as before with Bananaman, Kelvin, Bernard, Sky, Shyam, Vincent, James, Shaji and the writer contributing their 2-cents worth.
Kelly strode in with a wide-eyed Chris in her arms just after midnight and instantly, Sky dutifully played out his parenting role! Shouldn’t little Chris be in his cot? By 0021 hrs, Maccann had scored and Sunderland had taken a 3-2 lead over Chelsea. My eye lids were meeting more regularly now and I had counted the first twenty of my sheep.
Darkness overcame me in twenty minutes as I flopped horizontally on the same bed, in the same spot and in the same room as I did four years ago on a Nature Society(Singapore) bird-watching outing. Sleep finally came and my subconscious mind dug deep into a fathomless memory bank and painted a dream of a long-forgotten past. I relished the mental images only for them to disappear just as suddenly. Somehow, it didn’t seem right; there was absolute silence.
My hazy eyes were greeted by the clear but subdued daylight seeping into the room. I thought I heard a cock crow and as I turned over to my left, Bananaman was not there! I scanned my right – Shaji and James were nowhere to be seen. Peace at last, I remember telling myself and immediately melted back into dreamland till Tony’s distinctive voice roused me from my sleep.
It was 0735 hrs and as I sauntered out to join him and the others just outside the chalet, I heard him tell the others, “I was up at 5:30.” He explained that going by Auckland’s time, it was already 1030 hrs. and he was usually up by 0800 hrs there. “So, slept well or not?” he asked me in earnest. Shaji was out there somewhere with his trusty Minolta SLR catching the sunrise. He returned a short while later, a disappointed camera buff, “There was no sunrise.”
After Tony, Shaji, Vincent and I had our first shot of caffeine I popped under the cold showers and emerged 20 minutes later refreshed and ready for the long day ahead. Tony had earlier used our shower because there was none in his elevated chalet. Sky, Kelly, Bernard, Kelvin, Shyam and Danielle had not yet made their appearance and Edmund’s pearl-white ‘102 Dalmatians’ was nowhere to be seen.
Someone suggested going for breakfast and the next moment we were heading towards Mersing town near the roundabout for roti canai. Unfortunately, the roti canai stall was not open for business and Tony suggested the packed kampong style roti canai stall one kilometre from our chalets. “It must be good,” he reasoned, “because there are so many people and cars there.”
It was 0830 hrs when the waiter wearing an apron brought us our teh-tarik, bawang-telor, kosong and the gravy. Tony had secured a table already occupied by a lone elderly Malay man and he got the conversation going by asking where the 70-year old was from. From there on, the more relaxed senior citizen became more forthcoming in chatting with us. He ate there every morning, he said, and the telor bawang and teh tarik cost only RM1.50 ! A kosong went for RM0.40 As he tucked into his telor sardin and sipped his teh-tarik, we could see that he really appreciated the kampong style preparation. We shared the same verdict.
Kelvin and Shaji who had turned back from the coffee-shop at the roundabout, found us relishing our second piece of roti canai. When his orders came, Kelvin woofed down 1 telor sardin, 1 kosong, 1 bowl of ‘must-try’ lontong and teh-tarik and in the process he outperformed the Bananaman who only managed 1 telor bawang, 1 kosong and a teh-tarik.
Back in his room, Sky had received my SMS on his handphone. The words ‘roti canai’ brought him out of his stupor and in no time at all, the white Nissan was parked right in front of the stall with Kelly and little Chris in tow. “Wah lau eh, my stomach was rumbling when I read your SMS about the roti canai,” he explained his sudden appearance as the patient waiter took his family’s breakfast order.
I messaged Bernard to meet us at the kampong stall while someone called his handphone. “No response; he must have switched off the phone,” he reported. Neither did I get a response from Bernard. Perhaps, it was not difficult to understand why. Sky, Bernard, Kelvin, Shyam and Danielle had chatted into the early hours of the morning and by 0235 hrs they had decided it was time to adopt a horizontal position – sleep had gotten the better of them.
Sky’s handphone buzzed. In between tucking in his roti canai and drowning it with his teh-tarik, he gave Kang the direction to Kali’s Guesthouse. It seemed Kang was doing a morning ride with some Harley owners and they were keen to check out the Balinese resort. Our table was outrageously jam-packed with cups, glasses, plates, bowls, forks and spoons and with the second and third helpings we were tucking into, the mountain of crockery had to be relocated to a ledge just by the roadside when new orders came in. Ominous dark clouds hung low over the sea and a few drops of drizzle pelted our helmets left out on the open ledge. We decided it was time to make a bee-line for the security of Kali’s. Tony and Jason napped while Kelly busied herself tending to Vincent’s raw abrasions. “Don’t throw the pair of torn jeans away,” he was advised, “hang them up as a souvenir.”
At 1135 hrs we left Kali’s Guesthouse on the home-bound journey. Sky had chosen Highway 50 for its twisting and undulating terrain that ran through freshly-tarred roads that were sandwiched between oil-palm plantations and secondary jungle. What a welcome change from the boring Highway 3 on our out-bound journey the day before. After 90 kilometres of exhilaration, we regrouped by the roadside, 50 meters from a traffic junction.
The locals in Kluang popped their heads out of windows or stood outside their terraced shophouses to stare in disbelief at our unannounced arrival. Sky, Edmund and Lisa nonchalantly lit up and added to the pollution that was already beginning to choke the heated air. 5 minutes after we crossed the traffic junction, we were spot on at a petrol station situated at the fringe of the turn-off into the southbound North-South Highway. Sky wanted to be sure we had enough fuel in our tanks to take us to Perling for lunch.
Once we hit the highway, we opened up our throttles and on some stretches, James hit 260 kmph on his Fireblade while Sky was so far in front that the carbon monoxide molecules from his exhaust would have long vaporised into the rising thermals before we had a chance to smell them! We rode into the carpark of Restoran Queen Park at 1400 hrs and after a more than satisfying lunch, James led us to the Wak Car Wash Centre near Leisure Farm in Gelang Patah.
There, seven bikes, with the exception of Vincent’s GSXR750 and Edmund’s ST - he had left for home - lined up for the most thorough bike wash in Johor. “You know Boon Siew; he started off washing lorries for 10 cts a vehicle,” Tony shared with me, as the boy who couldn’t have been more than 16 years old, doused his Goldwing with shampoo and began the laborious task of washing our bikes. “People like him will make it in life,” he added. We occupied the corridor outside the carwash centre and each of us replenished our dehydrated bodies with cold drinks from the fridge. The late afternoon heat was taking its toll on us and we wished we could lie down in cool comfort or at least jump into a cold shower.
The boy barked instructions to three other workers – a Malay, a Chinese and an Indian. He was really meticulous as his sharp eyes darted to every nook and corner of our bikes, pointing out a spot here and another one there that had not been shampooed or washed clean. He himself was the epitome of the model worker as he squatted, stood up and prowled around my ST and Bernard’s, scrubbing, washing and polishing the metal parts with Autosol! All our bikes rolled off the tarmac with a tyre shine to boot; can you beat that? In all, we were there for 90 minutes and throughout that time, the workers never stopped working on the parade of bikes.
By 1645 hrs they were done. Some of us felt guilty that they had worked so hard and long for just RM5.00 per bike so we did the next best thing – tips, of course. “Don’t spoil the market, leh,” I heard someone say in jest. No, we were not spoiling the market; we were rewarding hard work with just wages. Not once did we detect any discontent in their body language or speech. On the contrary, they smiled and laughed throughout though they were working under such adverse conditions. They were also shockingly polite and terribly obliging as they rescrubbed, rewashed or repolished any spot that didn’t meet up with our fancy. A job well-done boys!
Our last stop was at Sky’s spanking new and almost completed terraced two-storey house in Gelang Patah. “We’d wanted a corner unit with a garden but by the time we came back two weeks later to sign our papers, the unit was already taken,” Sky told us. So he and Kelly had picked this corner unit without a garden and paid RM176,000 for it two years ago.
“Hey, hey, watch your side-stand,” he warned after the house-proud owner returned from an inspection of his prized possession with us in tow. Indeed, our side-stands had sunk one centimetre into the freshly laid tarred road. As we roared towards the familiar Esso petrol station, we did a mental juggling of figures; RM176,000 translated into something like SGD85,000 and a resale 3-room HDB unit would set us back by SGD166,000 at least! Lucky bloke, this Sky, earning Singapore dollars and spending Malaysian ringgit! How we envied him and Kelly – and little Chris, he didn’t have to serve national service when he’s 18!
All too soon, we were at the Singapore end of the 2nd Link at 1730 hrs thinking in Singapore dollars all the way home. Thanks, everyone, for the wonderful memories and especially your contributions to the ‘never a dull moment when you ride with Sky.’
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