Sunday, March 25, 2007 Covington: Wednesday so far By Gary Covington Looking In
SOMEBODY help me out here. Point me to a decent bicycle shop. Buhangin's stores, glitzy places, carry carbon-fiber frames, front forks with hydraulic suspension and electronic gizmos which display the time, temperature, air pressure and, for all I know, the state of the tides at Toril but can I buy rubber cement to fix a punctured inner tube? No sir.
Last weekend a reader e-mailed the newspaper to ask how it was we scribblers never seem to run out of topics.
We'll all have different answers to that -- my problem is not the idea, I'm forever jotting down reminders; rather it's the trick of expanding a one-sentence notion into half a page of newsprint.
Take this piece. Come last Wednesday morning, around 7:30, I still hadn't thought of a topic but I had just returned from a bike ride.
I'd shared Cabaguio Avenue with squads of military-looking guys jogging their way towards the Agdao flyover. At first, with their dark khaki-colored pants and singlets, I thought they might be firemen -- hasn't there just been some sort of firefighter's Olympics. Further on though I passed a troop wearing camouflage pattern pants and one squaddie carrying an automatic rifle. The military then but only one guy with a longarm? Fatigues? His turn to carry that weight?
On Magsaysay Avenue, although only around 6:30, all the traffic lights were working -- had the timers malfunctioned? Whatever the reason here was a major test of will for jeepney drivers ferrying children to the St. Ana elementary school. I loafed around for a bit, camera at the ready, sure I'd get a shot of jeepneys jumping the red light but no -- even though the streets were virtually empty of traffic every one obeyed the lights. Could it be that Dabawenyo drivers DCplinado is on the up and up?
At the top end of Magsaysay, abreast of that interesting building being constructed on the old bus depot, I was overtaken by a poser cyclist.
I hate these guys. Jealousy really. They're so confident, so dashing, so ultra-cool. This one was in black; black stretch pants, black sleeveless T-shirt and knotted on his head -- crash hats being uncool -- a black bandana.
Naturally, as soon as he saw me -- a fellow bicyclist but seriously uncool -- he went into his poser act. Hands-off riding, steering by balance. Punching the air, snapping the arms, flicking the wrists; the I've just biked from Zamboanga routine even though the guy's probably cycled from just around the corner. Oh for a marble to stray under his front wheel.
I know, thoughts I shouldn't have thunk and I paid for it. At the post office -- the morning’s destination -- I caught a metallic glint flashing off the front tire. I'd picked up a thumb-tack.
I levered it out with a fingernail, bending forward, listening for the hiss of escaping air. None came and with the postbox checked and fingers crossed I set off home.
The beauty of a bicycle is that I don't have to follow a set route. One day I'll stick to main thoroughfares and the next explore some unfamiliar subdivision. Wednesday morning I wandered through Obrero via Torres Street and there happened upon a man taking his dog for a walk; a man who couldn't bear to miss out on his radio.
The dog, a small Heinz 57 varieties terrier, was harnessed to a miniature four-wheeled cart, this loaded with a dry cell battery, a portable radio and a speaker. The dog was happy, trotting along with its tail in the air, and the guy was enjoying the radio music. Who needs a Walkman?
At Buhangin market, nearly home, the front tire, with a loud expletive hiss, gave up the ghost.
