I will take the opportunity to describe more thoroughly the environment that all this is taking place in. Sometimes, the context is all it takes to elevate comedic drudgery to cult status (or vice versa). However, given the way I prefer to write about things, reading such a description may be like trying to figure out how many calves a cow had had by having a blind person feel up its fossilized remains. So let us start with the bigger pieces.

Vicious Cycle I

The immediate impression of transport here is one that makes it seem that the invasion of Malaya has started again. The general ubiquity (and ubiquitous in the sense that bacteria are ubiquitous in spoiled milk) of bicycles and their bipedal brethren is instantly obvious, from the moment when a cyclist shaves past you and you feel the rush of air tinged with rust and bike oil. It's all very romantic and exciting for those who walk, watching a pack of cyclists rumble down cobbled lanes, but for the cyclists themselves, and the unfortunates who share the roads with them, it's a frenetic but clinical thing. And angry too – all cyclists are angry people in some way.

Back home, cycling's a relaxing activity – afternoon at the park, cold drinks, watching the sunset. Taking the shiny new bicycle, well oiled, out of its roomy park in the storeroom, packing it into the car, going to the park and cycling it around in a pleasant breeze, then wiping it off and returning it to a pleasant slumber. Utilitarian cycling, however, is never this tranquil. Firstly, parking and storage is a big problem. People complain that there's not enough parking for their cars. But at least in car parks, your car doesn't get subjected to all sorts of attempts to shrink space and subvert the laws of physics. A quick glance around the major cycle parks around town reveals several abuses. To describe it in more familiar motorcar terms, imagine a car park where half the lots are taken up by rusting hulks of cars, their wheels stolen, their windows broken and their cabin home to at least 2 varieties of pigeons. And then add that to a parking ethic where any space more than half a metre wide is fair game and your ability to find a space is wholly dependent on how well you can squeeze your car into these spaces like these, like a game of tetris with pieces in the shape of the Queen's head. Also, it depends on how Machiavellian you are willing to be, when push comes to shove and other people aren't around to see open sores of metal open up on the sides of their cars.

But it would not be so bad if bicycles were well nigh indestructible (something like how we never notice damage to our airline luggage). Bicycles, however, are finicky things, a delicate balance of moving parts, rubber, air molecules and the optical luminosity of red giants in the Crab Nebula. Any slight disruption of the force renders it unworkable, as though dropping a brick on a house of cards. Hence, in the enthusiasm to get one's bicycle secured, something inevitably gets damaged, or scratched or dislodged. This is also why bicycle parts are often littered with rusty odds and ends like broken locks and pieces of brakes knocked off by errant handlebars. Imagine also a car park where there are tyres, exhaust pipes and petrol spread around the place, even on top of the cars.

Once the issue of storage has been settled, then comes the actual riding of the bicycle (assuming that it has not been stolen or had its chain torn off). This is the true sticky business.