I did! I did ride my bicycle!

I spent part of the past evening stuck under the roof of the bus stop. I hadn’t watched the weather report, unlike usual. Even with my raincoat as a staple, there was no way I was going to stay dry in this weather. I was stuck here, halfway from the bike shop. My bike had a shattered rear wheel. Three days to order a wheel and new gears to match. So, I took pause in the shelter and leaned back, listening aimless to the music from my I pod. While the rain continued to pour, I just had to think for a moment,

“Was cycling really worth all this?”

I did not enjoy learning how to ride a bike when I was a kid. I was a brat and was never one to take any risks, especially when there was a risk of scraped knees, bleeding and even the slightest pain.

I was a wimpy kid.

I admit not an admirable trait. I would probably laugh at my younger self for the ineptitude I displayed. To be fair, I had some excuse. I was a pretty sickly kid back then, so I was not a very active child.

We were staying in Pampanga at the time. My parents had bought my brother and I a couple of bikes. Mine came with training wheels. Now I may have been a wimp, but I also had my pride. The idea of going around with side wheels was not to my liking. Plus given the type of roads around, it wasn’t practical.

So I tried a couple of times, scaring my mom half to death, getting cuts and bruises to match but getting no nearer to learning how to ride. I think I tried for a whole day and then gave up. I used to quit really easily. Retreat was always the option! Wave the white flag!

The next day though, my uncle came by to visit. I really didn't want to let him down. So we took to the dirt road again, him holding the back of my seat. "Pedal faster!," he said!

Faster.!
Faster!!
Faster!!!

Suddenly, I was pedalling, like crazy, eyes wild open and screaming like a fool.My family all watching from the side of the road, cheering me on. I felt safe, confident after all, my uncle was right there behind me. I knew he was.

I just checked.

And then he let go.

AAAH!!!

Off I went. weaving like crazy. Eyes even wider than before. I wonder who screamed louder, me or my mom. Probably me.

But I didn't stop.

I didn't fall. 

I had learnt how to ride a bike.



Finally.

Now what?

It would actually be more than a decade before I would ride a bike regularly again. I did ride a bit in my elementary years, but it had lost its sparkle and fun factor. By high school, it was just a skill you picked up as a kid and dismissed like tying your shoes. You just did it it the occasion required , but otherwise, no. But by the time I had moved back to the UK, it looks like riding a bike may have come to my rescue again.

Now I live pretty much near the office. How close? Try two train stops by way of the London Underground. A thirty minute bus ride. If you want to put it in financial terms, I would be spending over £2.50 per day, 5 days a week, 4 weeks on a month. It kind of adds up. But I didn't think of it that way until I began to realise two things. First, I had less free money on hand per month. No body would be happy in that position. And secondly, I was seriously getting out of shape.

But one day, one of my work mates Laura came up with an idea.
" Adam, why don't you cycle to work?"

Really? Could I really see myself putting on a helmet, cruising down the street, getting all sweaty , just to save a few pennies?

I bought my bike a week later.

21 speed, Carrera Subway 1.0 Hybrid bike.
Lightweight, and fast.
So fast it scared my just how fact it went the first time I took it to the road.

Sure I had to put up with the needling from my workmates and the stress of having to plan out my routes. Getting wet in the rain, sweating through two outfits a day.But it was ok. I was saving money and was getting back into shape, gradually.

Until some idiot stole my bike. Seriously, I had to travel half way across the world to be mugged off by some fool with a hacksaw? Just remebering that night still ticks me off. I felt really silly walking to the police station to report the crime. It came to little consolation that I was not the first victim in the office. I was still angry.

But three months later, I was tired of taking public transport. I could feel myself getting more unhealthy. I was getting restless and couldn't keep still.

I missed cycling.

So I bought another bike.

18 speed Raleigh Venture mountain bike.
Oh, I got two locks and insurance too.

So what is it about cycling? Why do I keep at it?

Well aside from the money saved and the health benefits, its the personal time.

In that twenty minute journey, I can shut out the world. On my way to work, I can plan out my day, reflect on life and just think things over. On my way home, I can take out my stress, look at how my day went and just lose myself to the quiet evening. It's never perfect, never the same, but it is the one part of my day that I can claim as my own.


The rain had slowed down to a reasonable level. I walked on to the bike shop. Paid the due cost of a new rear wheel and gears to boot. Shook my head at the prices (In these harsh economic times, one always reflects on the cost.). 

But when they brought out my bike, all fixed up and ready. I couldn't help but break out into a smile.

"Hello old friend."

"Let's Ride!"

Gotta dance!!! (Part 3)

The great part about being young is that when it comes to dancing, it’s not about the choreography. Seriously, as long as you are below the age of ten and are completely devoid of self-consciousness, you can do pretty much do whatever you want. As long as you don't hit anyone, stays away from doing anything lewd and stay within the rhythm of the music, you can bank on  people going , " Awww, how cute!" Actually I lied, music can be optional. 
 
Being Filipino, you had to be on hand for the ritual embarrassment your parents will subject you to when they put you on display in front of friends and family. Usually, this means the whole song and dance routine. I sometimes wonder what goes through the parents heads when they do this. Since me and my brother have no talent with musical instruments and have a gagging order preventing us form singing, I guess that left us with dancing. And my brother ALWAYS pulled rank.

But hey, to be fair, he had done his time in the purgatory that was "parent's embarrassing their kids night." A five year age gap between brothers meant that he had to take center stage for quite a bit. Not that he needed much prompting.  If you know him or ever get to meet him, just mention Grease. My parents once went with a couple of their friends and kids to the movie theatre. It just so happened to be a re screening of the film. At one point during the film, my brother along with the other kids promptly got up and decided to dance along.

"Aw, how cute."

To be fair, the audience did give them a rousing applause. Not that I remember the incident. I was still en route to being born.

As you get older, you realise how silly you look while attempting to dance and failing completely. But, for some reason or another it always came into my life for some reason. I would try to avoid it. Nobody wants to look like an idiot in public. But, it was a losing battle. There were two things I pretty much ended up doing in elementary that would have me putting on my dancing shoes.

First of all, I was always being asked to be an escort in whatever pageant or event our school would have. I guess it was because I was tall by Filipino standards, even at a young age. That and I could pull off wearing a suit and tie without a problem. In the third grade, however, I was partnered with my friend and classmate Farida in this Valentine's pageant of sorts. She was competing for the Princess of Hearts crown. This would not be the usually usher from one area to another role, oh no.

The organisers decided to add some pizazz and we were to have a dance number. So for nearly eight weeks, after class, we would meet on the flat roof of our main school building. Sweating out move after move, step after step, and trying to memorize each movement. It was the first time I really had a routine to follow. I wasn't doing things on the fly. Also, I had to dance to a song written and released a years before I was born, Paul Anka's "Diana." Not exactly cool points. I wonder if it would be sad to admit that I knew the song from listening at home.


The show went off without a hitch. The dance number was a surprise to the crowd. It was the casual wear portion of the pageant. Casual meant well-pressed denim jacket and trousers. After the girls strutted on stage, the struck a pose and out of nowhere the song began to play. Us, guys were hiding in the wings and then slowly, shuffled on to the stage to the beat of the music. The crowd roared in approval. It was was well received to say the least.  More importantly, no mistakes.  And my partner, Farida won pretty much hands down.

A couple of years ago I had coffee with Farida and we chuckled over the whole event. I think we still remember the routine as well. But you won't find me breaking into that routine any time soon. Plus I had a good dance partner.

Second of all, I was a Boy Scout. Yes, really. I wore the Scouting Green and kerchief with pride. I guess I thought it was cool as a kid. I always wanted to do the whole outdoors thing. Unfortunately, fears of health and safety limited whatever activities we could do. That and the school was pretty wussy when it came to letting us out. So we ended up doing most of our camping on school grounds.

Which meant we had to have entertainment. And what is more entertaining that having a variety show and what is this... a dance contest? So here we go again. But wait, we need to have a dance routine that will outshine everybody else.

We need to dance to THE hit song of the time.

It was 1989.

There was only one song and one song alone.

"Ice, Ice Baby," by Vanilla Ice.

I am so ashamed.

Now, we did have a great routine. And my brother, yes, my brother did the choreography. He does the better Running Man. We also only had an hour to get a routine together. But we went on stage first and pulled it off. That was probably a good thing. Not that we were worried about our dance routine. It's just that out of the six competing groups, all six decide to dance to the same song. Completely by accident.

Oh, we did win the contest by the way. Though it might have to do less with the quality than the fact that by the third act, everyone was bored of the song, us included. That and my Aunt Priam was in the audience and was screaming at the judges to vote for me. Nothing like intimidation to get the vote to swing your way.

As you get older, you get more conscious about how you dance. You feel like you have to look good and have to look cool. I miss the innocence of childhood where all you had to do was swing your hands in the air and bounce around the dance floor. Unfortunately, you just can't pull it off by looking cute.  No matter how much you try. So maybe I 'll dance around the room when I'm alone in my house, just for the heck of it. 


But never again to " Ice, Ice Baby. "

Never again.

An apology!!!

Puppet without strings would like to apologise for the lack of entries over the past couple of days. 


He had lost his smile for a while.


It's now back.




We now bring your back to your regular programming. 

Gotta dance!!! (Part 2)

Now dancing is well and good. After all, don't you find your self bopping your head, tapping your feet or breaking out into a spin out of nowhere? OK, maybe the last one was just me then. But even when we were young, my parents taught us to appreciate dance, especially different styles, cultural, modern and formal.Which would probably explain why I love watching ballet.

I have always believed that appreciating ballet was a combination of factors. There is the artistry and the technique by each individual dancer and the company as an ensemble. You can see the effort that has been put in by each individual as well as the backroom staff to make the production seem effortless. Each precise movement, formation, even the smallest gestures can be awe-inspiring.. Then, there was the story and and it's interpretation.I have always been a romantic and found the love stories really interesting when put to dance. Which is why ballet, especially at it's highest form moves me. It just brings out a pleasant feeling of  childlike wonder in me.

Perhaps that's how my father felt the first time he saw live ballet. To this day he calls it the best $10.00 he ever spent. Pa worked on merchant ships in his younger days and on one particular journey, he had a stop over at New York. Usually, they would get a free day for shore leave, just to have some free time. Pa decided to explore the ciy and ended up taking shelter at what appeared to be a theatre. It turned out that it was Radio City Music Hall. Having nothing else to do and wanting to kill time, Pa decided to pay the $10.00 (which was a lot even then) and see what was on offer.

He sat through a couple of comedy acts, a Rockettes routine and a movie. He pretty much thought the show was over, but then he got his big surprise. Now you have to understand, Pa was not a a big fan of classical music or ballet at the time. It just wasn't his thing before. All of a sudden, the orchestra revealed itself, the music began to build and the entire ballet company took to stage. My dad said that whenever he listens to classical music, it brings him back to that very moment, seeing the dancers move to the music in a most elegant fashion. Which is why to this day he has a great love for ballet. And he this is why he has shared that with us, the family.

Sometimes, I can be a bit too honest when it comes to watching performances. My aunt Prima used take up ballet herself. This aunt of mine is my dad's cousin and was pretty much closer in age to my brother and I.We had just moved to the Philippines at this time. Her ballet school had a big performance, so we all went in support. We had seats up in the front, along with all the camera toting families. Now, ballet was pretty much the realm of the upper classes. It shouldn't be surprising as lessons and shoes would have cost a fortune. This however lead to some kids taking up ballets even if they had little or no talent, nor were they physically adept to handle this sort of dancing.

So, there we were, sitting in the audience, the music blaring, flashbulbs blinding us with each picture taken and every family applauding their respective family member or friend as they took to stage. I sat and looked to the stage with a puzzled gaze. Something wasn't right. My aunt was doing fine and I thought she was doing quiet well. But I just couldn't stop myself from fidgeting around. My mother, growing impatient turned towards me and told me to settle down.

Finally, I broke my silence, talking in the loudest whisper, .

" Ma, this is supposed to be 'Swan Lake', right?" (I recognised the music and the costumes even at 6 years old.)

She nodded.

"It's not supposed to be, Fantasia right?"

She shook her head, a puzzled look on her face.

I paused for a second.

"Then why are there dancing Hippos? And they aren't very good dancers, either..."

Ma went red with embarrassment.
My grandaunt smiled broadly.
My brother giggled like crazy.

I was pretty much told to stay quiet for the rest of the performance.


I did get a big hug from my aunt afterwards.

Gotta dance!!! (Part 1)

I love Gene Kelly. I can watch "Singin' in the Rain," over and over again, if just to see the immortal sequence of him prancing around in a downpour. Yes, I know he had the flu that day. Yes, I know they had to add milk to the water so the rainfall could be captured on film. But those have little to do with my point today. It is just the absolute delight on his face as he whirled around, splashing around to the music and the look of happiness on his face.

Dance had a funny place in my family. When I was a young child growing up, we weren't allowed to watch TV on weekday nights. There were exceptions, Star Trek(Original Series), Mission Impossible(again, Original Series), Battlestar Gallactica( perhaps I am showing my age?), but most importantly Top of the Pops.

Now we did watch it to see what was the new music coming out. Yes, MTV was just in it's early years and was mostly in the US back then. So for a kid growing up in England, Top of the Pops was what you got. Yes, we appreciated the Soul classics, the 80's New Wave, but what we really were into was the dance music. My parents would always drag us to out feet and got us to hit it. We were young and completely carefree so we just wailed around like lunatics. The living room was our dance floor, and we had a blast.

My dad was actually a very good dancer in his youth and still is to this day. Back then, he did all the traditional Filipino dances for his elementary and later on his high school. He would often tell us about how he wouldn't be allowed to go class unless he trained first and that they would pull him out of class just to represent the school in some dance contest. One of the other kids would always have an extra costume on hand, just for him.

When we moved to the Philippines, things didn't change. There always seemed to be an occasion to dance. In my younger days, I was always being pushed to represent our side of the family during our grand family reunion in December. I used to always play coy about it, acting embarrassed, but when my grand uncles promised a gift for doing it, I would give in and strut my stuff. They would always throw money in appreciation. Funny, I always took the coins but refused the paper notes. Shows how smart I was back then.

The funny thing if that I would have done it, regardless. Why, because it was fun. There was an absolute joy in just letting yourself go and not caring about what anybody else thought. Pretty much letting the music take control. Even if it took you into doing "the Twist."

Because I have a bed.

I was talking to a friend in the Philippines. She told me a story. She was looking down the road and saw an old man pushing cart. The cart most like likely full of odds and ends, bric-a-brac, probably scavenged from the street. The guy looked like he was probably in his 80's maybe even his 90's. But the sad fact was that this guy probably didn't have a roof to sleep under, much less a bed to sleep on. This is a sad, but common fact of life in the developing world.

This kind of puts things in perspective. The troubles of one man, truly does not amount to a hill of beans in comparison to the woes of the world. In face of even the most personal of heartaches, one must look to what we are most grateful for. This list will be incomplete, naturally, as the list would go on forever. But at this point in time, let me look at what I am grateful for.

These are what I have been blessed with:

My Parents. The journey has been rough at times, but they have always been there. More than just their love, they gave me their respect. One day I hope to do something that they can look upon as truly worthwhile, be it a best selling novel, or just remembering to take out the trash.

My Elder Brother. We have gone to extremes growing up. He was my hero growing up and still bails me out at times. He may be the better football player, but I still can drill the three pointer better. He still tells me like it is. Sometimes you need that.

My sister in law. Because she makes my brother happy. And she makes this family all the more fun.

My elementary friends. Six years of growing up together. Still fond memories and they still make time.

My high school friends. The highs and lows of puberty, the nerdiest of educations and the worst dating record combined. Traumatising, but made some of the strongest bonds that last to this day.

My university friends. I came in a boy and left a boy, but ready to become the man I was meant to be. But you helped me find the person inside. Even if I still lose sight of that person.

My other family. The circle of friends that keeps on growing. To those here, those not, those long forgotten and those yet to come. 

My house. Actually, the one here and the two back in the Philippines. Keeps us warm and dry at night.

My Books and comic collection. I can still read them and be enthralled over and over again. I can travel through time, space and worlds, even for a while.

My PC. For work and play purposes, a most excellent gadget.

My Garden. Dad put in the effort. Only now have I begun to appreciate it. Writing drafts while sitting in the swing chair is most relaxing.

My swing chair. See above.

My middle finger on my right hand. I nearly lost it. I'll talk about that one day.

My Bike. Replaced my stolen Carerra Subway, but does the job very well. Plus it saves me money in travel costs.

Every woman I ever dated. For going out on the date at all. I had to learn somehow.

Every woman I ever loved. Because it was a great kindness and I'll remember you fondly always.

My best friend who told me to leave my hand open and let the bird come to you. Sometimes it stays, sometimes it flies away.

My best friend who helped me smile this morning.

My friend who told me the story and told me to look towards what I was thankful for.

The woman who helped me start writing this blog again. Always the number one fan. All ways and always.

This blog for helping me smile.

The brunch I will eat after writing this.

And the bed I will sleep in tonight.


I am most definitely grateful. Sometimes we get blessings we don't deserve, but we need. Sometimes heartbreak is the journey of the soul, travelled alone. But there are always things to be grateful for.

Even if it is because I have a bed.

September.

Sunrise on a Tuesday morning.

September winds begin to settle.

Someones' mother, someone's father began their working day.

Do you think they could have stopped for another coffee? 

Or paused for another minute of sleep?

Did you see the the planes make their final approach?

From your window, could you avoid the view?

Someone's daughter, someone's son was working today.

Those below, desperately rushed to safety, 

Those above, sadly looked on in dispair.

Night falls on a Tuesday evening.

Cool September winds begins to settle in. 

Someone's sister, someone's brother, no more work from this day.

On a Pacific Isle, day comes to it's final hours,

But it is elsewhere where the sun was setting. 

It was a Tuesday.

Tuesday night.

Senior year of my University days. I was settling in on an evening of lively discussion regarding the creation of the dormitory constitution for the Cervini and Eliazo Dormitories. The past couple of weeks had been rife with arguments, but at this point we had settled into a groove and were working on each point, thinking of the legacy it would leave behind future generations of dormers.

I can't remember who got the first text message. Someone mumbled about a plane crash happening. We ignored it and went back to our work. One by one, the familiar beeps kept on coming in increasing frequency. I think we actually finished out meeting before we started reading the messages. One by one, we began to realise something was the matter.

Plane crash.
New York.
World Trade Center.

We all rushed to our rooms. Every PC appeared to be on. Every Radio. Every TV. People talked in hushed tones everywhere. We watched the events happening as it streamed to our screens.  Was this for real?

It was.

Here we were, half way across the planet, our day ending. While in the East Coast of the United States, their working days was supposed to e only just beginning. And yet, that would be the last sunrise for many. Long into the night, we gathered wrote e-mails to everyone we knew, sent text messages to every number, checked with every relative.

We prayed and cried long into the night.

I never got to go to the the World Trade Center. I had gone to New York, years before as part of my holiday before going off to university. I had to make a choice when I was in Manhattan, go to the World Trade Center or go on the NBC studio tour. I was an aspiring journalist, so the choice was simple. After all, the Twin Towers would still be there, right? 

It has been a decade since that fateful day. I had been back to New York, but did not go to Ground Zero. I had my own issues at the time and frankly, going there might have pushed me over the edge. The place still casts it's shadow over the city, long after the debris had been cleared away. It is a scar that will never heal, especially in memory of those who bear the deepest wound.

The events of that day in September still resonate. Though rightly so, the USA claim this as their tragedy, the world was a victim. We live a post 9/11 era. It has changed how we travel. It has affected every government's foreign policy. It has shaped our relations with each other, good and bad. We could debate for hours on the aftermath, the Afghanistan invasion, the 7/7 bombing in London, the Iraq war, all these events and more.

People got up on one September morning. They got ready to greet the day, to go to work, to travel, to seize a day in their lives. It may have been night time in the Philippines at the time, but the sun had set for so many.

It is for them that we pause.
It is for them we remember.
And it is for them we appreciate each love we have, each friendship we are gifted with and each day we greet the sunshine.

It was a Tuesday.

We, that saw Wednesday remember.

Writing in invisible ink. (Part 1)

“So, you want to be a writer?”

I was in sixth grade when I had my dreams trampled upon by the words of my then English teacher. We were asked to write about what our hopes and dreams were for the future.  In typical fashion, half nobly wrote the script that their parents had put in their heads, writing about their dreams of being doctors and lawyers, detailing how they wish to better humanity. The odd few made clear their political aspirations. I had to look at these as idealistic hopes, as my present day cynicism would only scoff at these ambitions. We were all young then, so such musings were admirable and (hopefully) were devoid of the inevitable lust for excessive material fulfilment and the trappings of corrupt power.

I remember perhaps one or two had hopes of success in sports. I can’t remember the particulars. We did not find these out of place, as I think they were pretty good at whatever they were into. I just can’t remember who they were in particular, only that we were not surprised with their ambitions. Perhaps they made it and I remain ignorant of the matter. If it was so, I humbly apologise for not keeping up to date with the history with my peers are concerned.

In any case, this leads to my story. I decided to talk about my dream of being a writer. Now, even then I knew then extent of my abilities. I was not expecting to be a high brow writer of modern literature. I just wanted to tell stories, be a novelist. This was a kid, who grew up fascinated reading the mystery novels, action adventure stories and the odd sci-fi/fantasy tale. (One day I will complete my Hardy Boy mystery series collection!). I went on to drone about how I liked to tell stories about people, events or for just for entertainments sake.

It wasn’t my best essay by any account, but I was pretty happy with my work. I always liked essay writing to any other form of testing. It was the only way to express an understanding and grasp of a subject as opposed to plain facts and figures. Yes, some people love to pad their writing heavily, with flowery words and the odd anecdote. But, that was allowable as long as there was a point to all of it. In elementary school, essays would be handwritten on a sheet of lined intermediate pad, with borders. Blue or black ball point pen, depending on what was available.

I happily hand over my finished work to my English teacher, satisfied on a well thought out piece of work. She took it, read through it quickly, looked up, smiled and said, “So you want to be a writer?,” loud enough for the class to hear. I smiled broadly, thinking that my writing may have shown her possibly my great imagination, fantastic prose and charming ingenuity. But it’s her next words quickly took the wind out of my sails.

“Are you sure? With YOUR handwriting?!? “

Cue laughter from my classmates.

Now, it was no secret amongst everyone just how poor my shorthand penmanship was and still is. It is terrible. In second grade we actually had penmanship lessons and I had to stay after class for make up work because mine looked like chicken scratching. Actually, that would be inaccurate. At least chickens could read the scratching. I would have usually taken things in good humour, but the English teacher’s remark pretty much left a very painful mark. After all, if my English teacher could not see past my penmanship and see the actual work for its own merit, what hope did I have for being a writer?

I shouldn’t have let the event affect me, but it did. So much so, that writing would take the back seat for a while. It was pretty easy to do as I was moving into high school and writing was not high on my priorities a fitting in. These were the growing years, when childhood and innocence to fade into memory and when we became our selfish self-absorbed selves. The writer in me would have to go on hiatus for several years before taking stage again.