BORNEO (9/14): Along The Crocker Range

After a restless night watching that gecko chase its own tail and cockroaches on the ceiling, dawn arrived in Poring on Friday, 31st March. Energised from the triumphant mountain climb from the day before, the two parties met up for breakfast by the pool at 07:00. I had got up at 06:00 so that I could take a refreshing swim in the rainpool to prepare me for what was no doubt going to be an arduous, hot day. After a breakfast of eggs, frankfurters and beans, we made our ways to reception where each person chose their bike and a cycle helmet. The task before us was to cycle 180 kilometres across the Sabah Mountain Range, guaranteed to test even the fittest.

At 07:45, there was a bike line-up for the purpose of a team photo. The flag was raised, then lowered, indicating the start of the cycle ride. The task for today was to cycle the eighty-odd kilometres from Poring to Timbunan. The only rules imposed were to stick to the route, obey the police escort, drink plenty of water and that people would be 'cut-off' (i.e.. picked up by coach) if they didn't reach their destination by 16:00.

As I write this, I'm sitting at the desk in my Pan Pacific Sutera room on the ninth floor. My feet are on the desk and I'm comfortably prepared to finally get this diary up to date. As we all turned right out of Poring Hot Springs, the hill took a slight upward rise. At the top within minutes, the hill gave way to a ten minute downhill cycle. It was bliss to cycle at speeds of 40-, 50-, perhaps even 60 mph. At this speed, the air was so fresh, but we knew that the day had barely begun. Within an hour, because of all the downhill, we had covered 14 kms. At that point, I felt that the 80-odd kilometre cycle for today would be easily achieved. I couldn't have been more wrong.

As time drew on, we passed lots of little communities with what seemed like sheds for houses. Children played happily by the roadside while mothers tended to their younger ones. Soon, the route changed: the previous tarmac surface became an awkward asphalt surface. Before we reached this stretch of road, I had a very high opinion of Borneo's highways. Now, however, their roads are shameful. At least they're not as congested as our routes in Britain.

The asphalt sections of the ride were really uncomfortable with most guys claiming to have inherited 'saddle-bum syndrome'. I'll let you work out which parts of the body ended up very tender! Having spent an hour rumbling across this surface, I briefly looked to the right to acknowledge a group of children waving me by. When I looked back ahead of me, I noticed a large rock just feet away. Having no time to swerve, I struck the rock. The bike tipped forward and I landed, heavily, on my right shoulder no less than six feet away from where the bike itself came to rest. I felt a snap and cautiously rotated my shoulder before getting up on my knees. I felt a stinging in my right hand and discovered a deep cut along one of the creases in my palm. My first thoughts were that I had fractured my left thumb, but time proved that it was just very bruised. I was thankful for that. Despite the sustained injuries and the crucial role of hands with braking, balance etc., I soldiered on. At that point, I was too determined to let anyone - or anything - stand in my way. An ambulance came by, treated and dressed the wound and within ten minutes, I was on the road again. The next two hours were demanding with most of the route being uphill.

In an attempt to stay sane and conscious in the 32 degree heat, people started talking more, congregating while manually pushing their cycles uphill. Lunchtime came and I was a bit behind. I arrived half an hour late and decided that I would jack it in, that the sun - let alone the humidity - was causing me torment. When I stopped for lunch, I was assigned a lunch of what was supposed to be a sandwich, a hard chicken drumstick and a can of isotonic. Part of me didn't want to give up and I realised that many people had already quit. It emerged that some people had never even started the cycling at all. I sat on the coach for ten minutes and psyched myself into not giving up. True to my word, I carried on.

We set off again, just before 14:00, two hours before the imposed cut-off. I figured I would have no problems cycling for just two more hours, but I couldn't have been more wrong. In the first half hour, we were treated to an exhilarating six kilometres of downhill; we passed dozens of shanty towns and whole families rushed to the roadside to wave us by, eager to catch of a view of the speeding white men - and women - from the West.

As we continued down the winding slope, we passed a number of plantations and valleys that dropped hundreds of metres beneath the A4, the Sabah Route on which we were cycling. As time passed, the thrill of downhill cycling came and went. About forty-five minutes after setting off and nearly 15:00, we came to a bridge suspended over a fierce river laced with rapids. Beyond the bridge was an asphalt route leading steeply upwards. Feeling disheartened, dozens of others and I pushed ahead. Spurred on by the experience of the downhill route we had just enjoyed, we figured that there must be more to come. It wasn't to be, not for me anyway.

Half an hour had passed and I was beginning to feel the grind. I felt my blood starting to boil, my body begging for mercy. Stupidly, perhaps, I refused to listen to what my body was telling me. At that point, up ahead, I noticed dozens of young children smartly dressed in what could pass for school uniforms. They stared, transfixed, by the white and sweaty people in their territory. The children remained within view for quite a while, curiously following us as they made their own ways home.

Minutes later, a van passed by and one of the cyclists was cheating, hanging onto the back of the van whilst remaining seated on his cycle. Tempted by the possibility of getting a lift uphill, I sped up on my bike and grasped the rope tied to the van. For ten minutes, I enjoyed this luxury, until the road had narrowed from a landslide, forcing the driver to turn back. He would have to find an alternative route to get him to his destination. As cyclists, our aim was to proceed. We did so, giving in to another stretch of uphill. Within five minutes, I found myself sitting by the roadside, exhausted from the heat of the afternoon. While I had intended to just take a break, then press on, I couldn't. I tried getting up and my legs gave way. My arms were burning and at that very moment the first signs of rain started to fall. In desperation, in a very religious country, I prayed. I prayed for rain and lots of it. The event escort drove by in his Land Rover. He offered me water, but I asked for an ambulance, indicating that I was giving in. He told me to wait for an ambulance by the roadside. I slumped by the road in what little shade I could find. Almost instantly, I started trembling and sweating. Even in the shade where I was sitting, it was boiling. Or was it just me? Five minutes passed, then ten. Still no ambulance. My head started to feel heavy, the shivering in my spine never-ending.

By now, I was getting worried. Just as I started wondering what might be wrong with me, the ambulance appeared around the bend of the road to my left. I felt so relieved to see them. They parked the vehicle on the other side of the road and approached me. As I stood up to tell them of my condition, my legs gave way. Two of the three paramedics caught me just in time and they quickly went to work. They helped me walk to the ambulance and laid me down on the bed inside. They covered my body in bandages, to treat any burns and to aid the cooling down of my very being. The paramedic removed my cap and a dead mosquito fell out, or so he told me later. Right then, in sheer horror, I started crying. I had all the symptoms of malaria and just panicked. Indeed, they did find a mosquito bite on my head, but malaria was ruled out. By now, I was finding it hard to breath and they hooked me up to a breathalyser. My lungs felt like hot coals and my skin throbbed beneath the now warm bandages.

They diagnosed dehydration and within thirty minutes, my sweating and breathing had stabilised. It wasn't until several hours later, however, that I could walk unaided. In the meantime, I was transported to the coach which was in the process of collecting people now that the 16:00 'cut-off' had arrived.

Many people wanted to continue, determined to reach the designated destination. Their request were accepted on a case by case basis subject to the individuals well being. To allow the cyclists some time in getting ahead, the coach stopped in a very isolated town where Crazy Sharon from Poole and I shopped for drink and snacks. Sharon helped me across the road as though I was an old man! I felt so embarrassed, but at the same time we had a good laugh about getting together to collect our pensions when we got older! In gratitude, I bought her a packet of cigarettes. Well, they were only forty pence a packet! She's been a good mate, a marvellous laugh and she's helped me to communicate in some tricky situations such as meetings and group discussions. Sharon and I had our picture taken with some of the local children, all of whom were adorable and extremely well behaved. It was time to get back on the bus to travel the last few miles to our destination, Timbunan.

It was gone six when we arrived at the Timbunan Village Resort, our accommodation for the night; the spacious rooms were within 'long-houses' and a lagoon accompanied the clubhouse where people meet to eat, drink and be entertained. Having recovered from the dehydration episode earlier in the day, I headed for the clubhouse in search of dinner. As I approached the clubhouse, I could smell the frankfurters and chicken gently roasting on the barbecue, their aromas filling the thick air. To accompany the meat were servings of noodles and salad, truly one of the best meals since our arrival. Shortly after dinner, a traditional Malaysian cabaret started up. The dancing act involved four men and four women, all choreographed to gentle oriental music. Ten minutes or so later, long thin bamboo logs were introduced into the act. Using a set routine of banging and shifting, members of the audience were given an opportunity to attempt skipping across the ever-moving logs. The results were hilarious and I suppose you just had to be there!

By this time, it was nearing 23:00 and the day had been a hard one for all concerned. Gradually, the crowd dispersed and I returned to my long-house just before midnight. In the cool of the night, although still extremely warm, the burns I had inherited became more apparent. The skin on my legs and arms was glowing and I felt cold from within. I had a shower, alternating between hot and cold water, hoping to bring some relief. Afterwards, I applied layer after layer of aftersun and it was obvious that an uncomfortable night of sleep was about to follow.

The sleeping arrangements for tonight are a bit awkward. In Long-house C5, there were two bedrooms (one twin room with and one double bedroom), a spacious living room with very basic adjoining bathroom and kitchen facilities. Troy, the vain one, had done well with the cycling today so he not surprisingly turned in quite early in the evening. Quite selfishly, he occupied the twin room, locking the door. When I turned in, I couldn't get into the bedroom and had no intention of letting this minor incident get to me. While there was still another double bedroom, it had been agreed that Pauline, a woman from Yorkshire, would have this bedroom. So, what was I to do? The living room area was equipped with a hard wooden floor, pretty much the norm in many a Malaysian home. In the corner, there were a number of two inch thick mats which I laid down to form a mattress. With the bedding locked with the twin room, I used my own beach towel for a blanket. I suppose I was going to be having a more traditional sleep than the others tonight.