Riding the 2014 PCC Interstate

First published in The Star, (Malaysia) Oct 11, 2014

Photographs by James Bak

In road cycling, a ‘century’ is a 100mile or 160km ride.  A century is a non-trivial ride, but take 3 centuries, ridden consecutively back to back over 3 days, stretch them each a little, throw in a couple of big climbs and what do you have?

You have the 2014 PCC (Pedalholics Cycling Club) Interstate ride, a 3-day, 525km cyclefest of pedalling, more pedalling, camaraderie and lots of suffering.  The first PCC Interstate, held in 1998, attracted about 20 riders on mountain bikes, but the 2014 event had hundreds of cyclists riding road bikes.  

The event, which attracts plenty of attention from the cycling community, was fully subsribed within hours of opening for registration early in 2014, and saw cycling clubs and individuals from as far afield as Penang, Malacca, Singapore, East Malaysia and two monstrously strong Indonesians who rode all the way on their mountain bikes with knobby tires.  

Early one morning, unsuspecting motorists in Kota Damansara were treated to the sight of hundreds of cyclists spilling out onto the road, led by a Marshall’s car, which controlled the pace in the morning traffic.  Behind the Marshall’s car, a long train of cyclists, let loose after months of hard training.   

The Interstate is a noncompetitive event, organised as a get-together for people who have sprockets in their brains and an itch in their legs, but many cyclists are competitive by nature, and as the Marshalls car pulled to the side, the massed group of cyclists sorted itself out into many smaller subgroups or pelotons, speed being the distinguishing factor.

Riding in a peloton is far more efficient than riding alone, as the group works as one, conserving energy, the same way that schools of fish, flocks of birds and insect masses stick together for the common good.  The trick is to ride in a peloton which rides at your speed, and one which you’re comfortable with, as pelotons evolve their own etiquette and discipline.

The route was the scenic one, meandering through relatively little trafficked backroads, with pelotons breaking into smaller groups along the way.  At Kuala Kubu Baru, there was a pause before the climb to Fraser’s Hill.

The  40-km road climb to Fraser’s is lovely, winding, dappled with sunlight, fragrant with the smell of the forest, but when you’ve ridden 120km that day, it’s also daunting.

There’s an unseen, but crucial element to long rides, and that’s the support car.  Most teams had their support cars, which carried family, drinks, food and moral support. As a last resort, support cars also carry riders unable to continue due to equipment failure - of bike, body or mind.

After a long and hard climb, there was the final reward and release for the day – the clock tower at Fraser’s Hill, a hot shower and hot meal waiting.  At about 8pm, while we were having dinner, the last cyclist rode up alone, with a headlight.  We broke into spontaneous applause, recognising true grit when we saw it.

The next morning started with a steep and glorious downhill stretch down a winding road, with the forest dense on either side, shafts of sunlight slanting steeply to illuminate the smoking foliage.  The road descended past the now-somnolent, once-hotspot villages of Tras and Tranum, past Raub and onto a small road leading into miles and miles of oil palm plantations.  At a mid-morning break at a row of shops, we regrouped into our own peloton, riding in familiar company, in a tight group at a moderated speed, taking turns at the front and motioning out for road irregularities or oncoming traffic.

Another peloton merged with ours, and jointly, we made rapid progress, the road with slight undulations and young oil palm plantations on either side. Around lunchtime, we pulled into the settlement of Sg Koyan, with its single petrol station. This was the last watering hole, the last homely place before our turnoff onto the monster 83-km, 1500 meter climb to Cameron Highlands.  In between, there was no succour if you ran out of water or food, only the bleached skeletons of past cyclists foolish enough to attempt the crossing unsupported.  Or so it seemed, to our fevered minds.

The sun beat down relentlessly. Unlike the intimacy of the Fraser’s Hill road, this road was broad, sweeping and exposed. The stubble of what had once been a lush rainforest covered the hills, a pitiful simulacrum of a tropical paradise, a logged over wasteland.  The incline was not steep, but we’d ridden 90 km that day, and there was still 100 km to go to our destination. It was a slow, gradual climb, watching the tenths of a kilometer crawl slowly by on the odometer, with only your shadow for company for much of the way, for on long climbs such as these, pelotons fracture into atomic parts, each cyclist ensconed within his own mental solitude.

The support cars were crucial along this stretch. I was always on the lookout for ours, for it was helmed by an angel in human form who had woken early to cut fresh fruit and brew herbal teas, stashed in a big ice-box in the back which also contained isotonic drinks and water. There were also sandwiches and other snacks.  The angel’s husband was a co-cyclist who suffered with the rest of us in the shimmering heat reflected from the tarmac, and up the inclines.

Sometimes, you have to be careful what you wish for, because the weather turned clement, and then dull, and then dark, and it began to rain.  What started out as a drizzle rapidly became steady rain. Parts of the road became sheets of running water.  Completely soaked, stopping for more than a short time brought on the shivers. The best way to keep warm was to keep on pedalling, peering past the falling mist of rain, and grinding on up that inexorable road.

Eventually, the signs of civilisation appeared: vegetable farms under sheets of plastic, small farmhouses. The rain had petered out into a weak drizzle, and my speedometer had died in rain.  In my mind, I had been riding for a very long time over a very long distance and yet, the hill continued to climb, past one vegetable farm after another, one drab row of buildings after another.

There was a long, particularly brutal uphill stretch with a sharp left turn at the end of it, and when I reached the apex, I saw above me, the town of Ringlet.  It was 5pm and my fingers and some other parts of my anatomy were numb. But my legs were still working.

A much-needed break at the petrol station at Ringlet, a nibble, a reunion with friends driving support cars and with almost 180 km behind me, the daunting reminder of another 16km to the hotel at Brinchang.  There was nothing for it but to climb back on the saddle and tackle the stretch, which had a series of nasty uphill hairpin turns before descending into the traffic jam at Tanah Rata, with a merciful but short flat section before another climb at the end of town.

At Brinchang, finally, a warm shower, and a change into something dry and warm.  At dinner, cyclists were still coming in past 8pm, but there had also been cyclists who had arrived hours before me.

The last morning started with another climb up hairpin turns to the ridge at Kg Raja where the road drops away into lowland. The sky was blue, the sun was shining and there was a magnificent 60km downhill stretch to Simpang Pulai, taken at speed, aiming for clear strips of road between broken patches, alone for many stretches, with the towering forest on one side and the sun-dappled country laid out like a map on the other, alone with my thoughts and the elation of being out there, the wind whistling past.

The lowlands, flat roads and heat. Our peloton regrouped at a petrol station stop, and we cycled the last 100km or so at moderate speeds, the speed demons having been scrubbed away in the past two days.  This was one of the sweet spots of cycling: working together in a team, an unspoken bond of shared enjoyment, a sweet cadence in the legs, an opiate from the brain, and the miles vanishing in a blur of hissing road beneath.

We stopped at a row of shops on a sun-drenched stretch of road for a well-deserved lunch: a cold isotonic drink, iced Milo, a heapful of rice, chicken, lots of vegetables and plenty of water for me. 

We breezed through Manjung district, small towns basking in the bright afternoon sun, under patches of cool shade from roadside trees, squirting water over ourselves at traffic lights as the heat rose in waves from the road. I had punctures in both tyres, giving way suddenly with a sibilant hiss, fixed quickly with a little help from my friends.

We approached the final stretch, with its mangroves and dark rivers, and the peloton fragmented as the pace picked up.  Towards the end, I felt elated and suddenly sorry that it was coming to an end, as I rode the last few hundred meters to the hotel, on a bluff overlooking the shining sea.

Copyright © 2014 Lee Yu Kit