It Was Just The Brake Pedal

My attitude towards riding is slowly evolving. For many years since 2005, after my third road mishap, I had been telling myself that riding a motorcycle is like a ticking time bomb, which can at anytime detonate rather tragically. That was the day I gave up riding, having walked away from that collision with naught more than soft tissue injury, musing that I had spent from 1988 till 2005 riding and having fun. It was time to stop, for I could not guarantee that I would walk away from a fourth accident. I had to ensure I stayed alive for the sake of the family.

Over the years, this form of auto-suggestion had taken on a life force of its own and from being such a diehard rider, I stopped turning my head to gaze longingly at passing superbikes, often thinking that the poor riders had no idea how much longer they had to stay alive. Yes, I had even become a touch mean spirited, with a hint of mild bitterness that I had rationalised the fun and love for biking out of my soul.

But then, at Brenda's wisdom and behest, when the walls of my world were closing in on me with my suspension from flying duties, we bought a bike. I trembled with my heart racing when I tried out the bike at the shop, terrified at how much I had lost over twenty one years out of the saddle. Eventually, the more I rode, with Brenda as pillion of course, the more my abilities returned, somewhat sub consciously. 

Oddly though, I wasn't yet comfortable on the little Vulcan S. From brand new, I had not felt the rear brake engage the rear brake disc. I couldn't figure out why it was so. I spoke to my mechanics about bleeding the rear brake line, but they were dead against it, cautioning me about possibly locking up the rear wheel and swinging the bike out of control. And so, I continued riding for nearly two years now, applying, but never feeling, the rear brake. Of course my u-turns were horrendous, but I kept riding nonplussed over the situation.

Finally, last week, unable to bear my frustration any longer, I brought up the matter with the boss of the shop, and enquired if he could do something about it. He told me to bring it in so he could look at it. And so I did.

In the interest of abbreviation, after the discussions with the boss and various supplementary dealings, the  youngest (and latest to join the shop) mechanic tested the bike and reported that the rear brake was fine. Not completely satisfied, I attempted to ask him if he could adjust the brake pedal slightly upward. He stared at the rear brake pedal for a minute, and then got his tools to it and started to adjust. I was delighted to see the brake pedal rotate upward, and told him when to stop. I took the bike for a spin around the block and for the first time ever, I could feel the brake pads engage the disc. The bite wasn't immediate but then again, they pads hadn't bedded to the disc at ten thousand kilometres. However, I could feel the nibble of the brake pads against the brake disc. Of that I was positive.

Now, I felt that the bike was complete; that it was a fully functional organism, so to speak. Now, I felt that we stand a chance of growing together. That she was finally mine. I mean, ours.

A lesson, relearned: it is often the case with motorcycles, that what appears to be an immense problem, often yields to the simplest solutions.

The Ride To TA

The way the church has been going lately, I wonder if I will even get a fair funeral mass should I die soon. They want proof that I am Catholic, that I am part of this church, that I am a serving member of a church community et cetera, et cetera and frankly, I have arrived at a point where I don't care so much about what happens to my body once my spirit detaches from it.

All the same, to not make things more difficult for those who are left saddled with the work of burying or cremating me, I decided that I should settle at least my documentation once and for all and get my "3-in-1" extract from the church wherein I was baptised, St Anthony's Church in Teluk Intan or as it was known back in the day, Telok Anson. Indeed, for as long as I was flying the Nuri, Teluk Intan still had a non directional beacon which we could use as a navigation aid with its identifying morse code. Tango Alpha! How quaint.

Brenda had requested that we also ride over the bridge to Bagan Datoh, the Jambatan Sultan Nazrin because it looked so dramatic from the road leading in and out of Teluk Intan via the southern route. The plan then was to ride to Teluk Intan on Monday 27 April, get the extract from St Anthony's on Tuesday and ride home on Wednesday. Bookings were made for Hotel Anson and come Monday, we set off at 0925.

It was our first time trying out the West Coast Expressway from just after Klang to Teluk Intan. We were well rewarded by not having to endure too many of the jams which plague the normal route via the Shah Alam highways heading north. It seemed that before too long, we were already passing the corner-of-the-world towns of Sabak Bernam and Sekinchan. We took one water break on the highway and one more at the Sabak Bernam Petronas station to stay hydrated in he baking heat. Thank goodness for mesh jackets!

The Android Auto unit on the bike resumed the navigation as we continued on our way. The miles slipped by and before long, it showed Teluk Intan was about 14km ahead. The town council provides a "bike lane" which like many egalitarian facilities in Malaysia, vanishes both sporadically and intermittently. But the TA drivers thankfully, understood the quirks of their town and seemed to me especially tolerant of my adherence to the arrangements.

Riding in Teluk Intan is always a slower affair than in other towns, I find. That's because there are many motorists who are aged, and extra caution needs to exercised while driving to keep the accident rate low. We wove our way slowly to our accommodations, this time at Anson Hotel. It was close to the church and our favourite eatery, the Anson Hainan Kopitiam. The only snag was that it being a Monday, both the Hainan Kopitiam and Ah Lek, Teluk Intan's foremost chee cheong fun outlet was closed. Thankfully, the restaurant right next to Anson Hotel was open and once we had checked in, we had lunch there and it was rather good. Evening was on us soon enough. We decided to call for Grab noodles for dinner and in my utter brilliance, I had neither packed utensils into my tank bag nor had I requested plastic cutlery from the Grab restaurant. I sent a rather vehement Note To Self.

The Anson Hainan Kopitiam. A bit "atas" judging by the clientele.

Our appointment with a Ms Rowena (yes, a Rowena) the next day was at 0930, the office hours of the church admin. We figured we would ride to Ah Lek first, where we relished the chee cheong fun. We managed to have a leisurely breakfast and got to church on time. However, Ms Rowena was nowhere to be found and cross checking with her on WhatsApp revealed that she would be an hour late. I then checked how long she would be around and she said till 1230. That gave us just enough time to cross the Jambatan Sultan Nazrin and get back to retrieve my extract. Yes, a bit tight but this was why we made the trip since 4 months of communicating with Rowena to get the extract mailed to me always ended up in silent treatment. So we kitted up and set off for Bagan Datoh!

A cafe stop at Kopi Saigon, Bagan datoh

The route to Bagan Dato was 45 minutes long via coutry lanes with nasty drivers who didn't care about running right through you during overtakes from ahead. It may have been a bit of an arduous route, but it got us to Bagan Datoh rather congenially, without having to cross roads or traffic. We grabbed a very nice coffee at Kopi Saigon (purportedly Vietnamese). where we seemed to be he only customers in a rather dead quiet little town. Just as soon as we drained the cup, it was time to make it back to st Anthony's or I would have failed the mission.

It was hardly 3km from kopi Saigon where the long stretch of road to the bridge began. Trivia has it that the bridge stands at 10km long, with the overwater span at 1.5km. Rather impressive for a sleepy hollow such as Bagan Datoh!

As we rode, I kept a close watch on the ETA to st Anthony's. It seemed that we would arrive just a few minutes after 1200, which shouldn't displease Ms Rowena too much. We stopped just outside the church office and I went in to get the extract. I held the little sheet of blue paper, a 3-in-1 certificate with the dates and churches where I was baptised, did my Confirmation and was married. I couldn't help reminiscing on Boromir's words: It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing.

But this meant one thing: mission accomplished! It gave us a much better night of restful sleep at the Anson Hotel.

And of course, the ride home was an amble well worth the ride down to TA. It brought back many memories and much resloution to my current predicament to do with the church. Until the next one, as is always the case in life.

And So I Carry On

I have always served in some way or form in every church I've attended. Starting as a commentator in Sacred Heart Cathedral Kota Kinabalu during my confirmation at age 11, to being part of the choir in St Francis Xavier Petaling Jaya, to being a lecter at St Chastan and Imbert Butterworth, I have always sought to render my contributions in some way I could amidst my hectic schedule as a military pilot.

I was unaware that in a voluntary church group like the choir, the priest would find it in himself to dictate who joins, who gets sacked and who serves him as he wants to be served. Yes, you heard me.

And so it happened to Brenda and I in 2020, when Covid19 gripped the nation and a backdoor government was installed, the parish priest of my church here in Somban sacked the choir without providing a reason. One of the senior choir members tried reasoning with him but he was adamant. I didn't think too much of it save for indignation at having no choice but to concede. I was a struggling copilot in the offshore helicopter flying world then, and I didn't have the time premium to let this scar fester.

I was kept busy. The office politics which is difficult for a senior first officer to sidestep and being the Base Flight Safety Officer consumed my energies. Also in 2021 I discovered I was diabetic and had that to deal with. My transfer to Kota Kinabalu base came in 2022 whcih started another round of adapting to a new life and environment and work life took on a form of its merry own.

So when the curtains drew to a close after CAAM's medical board decided to ground me permanently based on my haemorrhagic stroke in 2025, I decided that I could throw my effort into church. Coincidentally, the church notices projected before the final blessing indicated that the evening mass choir was in need of people. Hence, I signed up.

It was all going cheerfully for about a year.

The priest sacked the 0930H morning mass choir. In toto. It's what he does. When one of the sacked guitarists approached him to be reinstated, the priest was again, as ever, adamant over his sacking. Which is when the young punk asked him why it is that a former sacked choir member could be allowed to return to the choir while he could not. Yes, he meant me.

The priest was scandalised. He had no idea who I was even though he had seen me mass after mass for a year. He had heard me singing psalms for a year and was oblivious still. Indeed for the chrism mass rehearsal which he checked with a fine tooth comb, he heard me sing the psalm too, gave his seal of approval and yet didn't realise it was me. And so, he dismissed me once again. Not by telling me personally, but via the choir mistress.

I put in an appointment to see him about this, as was intimated to me was his request via the choir mistress. His clerk called me to inform me that he didn't want to see me and any questions I have should be referred to the choir mistress.

It's bad enough that he is too yellow bellied to meet me one on one. He slandered me during a meeting he had with the rest of the choir members about how badly I sang the psalm during the chrism mass. 

I am not going to insist on meeting him. It is already clear to me that his reasons for the first sacking in 2020 and the second one in 2026 were indefensible, which is why he sacked me again when questioned by the hapless chap from the morning mass choir. 

He draws far too much attention to himself for him to be actually serving God. 

But worry not. He hasn't seen the last of me.

"They shall look upon the one whom they pierced."

I shall revel in that Scriptural reference.