The Fork

It's going to rain. I can tell, because my knee is itching like crazy. It's a big mess of fresh scars, and extremely sensitive to weather changes. Always a few minutes before Astro shows distortion, I can feel a thunderstorm approaching. Oh well, I guess cut up knees are part of life for an XC rider. No padding, for more freedom of movement. Great. Until you crash…

That day a few weeks back started like any other day. An early wake up call by the most annoying dj the valley has so far had the pleasure of listening to. They want the audience to call and share the most embarrassing moment they had in public because of their parents. I'm surprised so many people are calling. The dj plays yet another Michael Jackson song. Time to get up.

At the first glimpse of light I'm on my bike. It's chilly. The air is still without too much haze and exhaust fumes. "Pagiiii", the Indian butcher shouts when I curve around his chopping block. Even the meat smells less pungent today.

If you're the owner of the burgundy Toyota Unser, my apologies for clipping your side mirror. In my defense, you shouldn't park there. Especially so early in the morning there's plenty of parking in the designated spots.

The nasi lemak girl is setting up her stuff. One stool for her to sit on, one stool for the crate of nasi lemak. Darn, I forgot to bring the one ringgit note I still owe her from the other day. "Pagiiii", I shout at her, hoping that she has forgotten. Her look says otherwise. "Tomorrow, I promise", I promise her. She smiles.

I climb the hill into Bukit Kiara park. Smoothly, I might add. I pass a lady on her morning walk. One of her shoes is squeaking like a lobster in boiling water. Really loud. That must irritate the hell out of her. My bicycle is exceptionally quiet today. Sometimes she (the bike, I don't know about the lady) just sounds more grinding. Not today. Smooth all the way.

Another rider is waiting at the gazebo for the light to be strong enough to go into the jungle. We know each other. "W'sup", he says. I don't know his name. He doesn't know my name. We don't care. Sometimes we ride together. When we meet, we ride. Life is not that complicated. He once told me he works at a photo shop. I was surprised at the crappiness of his camera. We never talked about work after that. It's not necessary. We have zero in common, except a shared passion for riding. At which we both suck. That creates a strange bond.

"How's the fork holding up", he asks, giving polite follow-up to one of my earlier complaints when I had a bad day and needed to blame my bicycle. I shrug. Then I notice he upgraded his. "Nice one. Vanilla." It must have cost him a frigging bomb. I like that. The guy sets his priorities right. "I'm jealous", I say. And I mean it, in a nice way. He nods.

He asks "2K?" It's my favorite trail. I adjust the damping of my fork. There's actually nothing wrong with it. I'm used to it. "Sure", I say, and lead the way into the dark jungle. Leading has its pro's and con's. The good thing is that you determine the pace. The bad thing is, that being the first in the jungle means you're the one sweeping up all the fresh cobwebs, including its arachnid inhabitants. It sticks to your face, and stings in your eyes.

The first part has a lot of rooty staircases. It's nice, because I know this trail inside out. We bomb down the steps. After a while it goes steeply up for a few meters. A big cobweb sticks to my helmet, face, nose, ears, mouth, and eyes. I try to spit it away. It partially blinds me. That's how I misjudge the next drop. With watery eyes in the dark woods, I can only see a blur. But I feel my front wheel drop much sooner and much deeper than I expected.

I crash hard. My left side hits the steep hill side. My head hits a tree and I ricochet off it. The helmet does its job. My knee hits the next tree. No protection there. It hurts so bad. I try to get up. "Click", says my knee cap. "U ok?" my friend asks me. "I'm good", I say and inspect my bike. Not a scratch on it of course. "U shud upgrade ur fork", he says. "Yeah, it's rubbish", is my answer. I splash some water on my knee to get rid of the mud. It's bleeding. "Blood is good", says the dude, "it disinfects." "Thanks, doctor Oz", I say, "let's go." I lead again.

We ride hard and concentrated the rest of the trail. When we come out it's completely light. "U look like shit", my fellow rider says. Is that his professional opinion as a photographer? Other people also look worried when they see me. My jersey is shredded. And my knee hurts like crazy. Blood is dripping down my leg. I decide to call it a day and go for breakfast. "See ya", is the farewell as I peddle the short climb up the hill to exit the park.

Back home I lick my wounds and have my breakfast in the kitchen. I surf eBay and find dozens of knee and elbow protectors. They're cheap. Free shipping. But I'm not a downhill rider. I decide to reward myself with a new shirt. Much nicer.

- end -