Senator Lito Lapid's pseudo thoughts on the Impeachment Trial

From beonline.com.ph

Bakit ba pa-jads-jads pa?  Di ba lahat naman tayo ay may kasalanan?  Sabi nga nila, kung sino ang malinaw ang mata at matuwid ang pukol, siya ang unang bumato.  Eh, kaya nga ako may salamin eh, para masipat ko nang maigi ang akusado.  Yun nga lang, ayoko namang mapahiya dahil hindi ko naman alam ang kailangang ipukol - bato ba o tinapay?  Eh, di ba nasasabi din sa Koran kung batuhin ka ng bato, umilag ka at batuhin mo din sya ng tinapay?  Mas mahusay sana kung may palaman na - yung egg sanwits - para kung gutom ang kalaban mo, ay may makakain siya nang masustansiya.  Ohh, eh di peace na kayo?

Tsaka 'di ko naman linya ang batuhan.  Nakilala nga ako sa pelikula bilang mahusay sa gatilyo.  Aba, kung napanood niyo lang ang mga klasik ko na Leon Guerrero at Julio Valiente, 'di mabilang ang mga napatay kong masasamang tao. Sa sobrang dami nga eh binubuhay namin yung ibang extra at pinapatakbo ng patalikod para mabaril ko naman sa tagiliran.  Kung hindi mo pa nakita pahiramin kita ng betamax copy ko.  Wala akong dibidi, napi-pirata kasi yon. At lis, ito orig.

Ekspert ako dyan sa barilan.  Gusto ko nga sanang i-sages sa ating militari yung mga teknik ko sa pagbaril para malupig na lahat ng mga kaaway ng kapayapaan.  Eh di ba magaling magtago ang mga kaaway?  Aba, kung ang mga sundalo natin ay matuto nung tinatawag na plesing -- yung bang aasintahin mo ang bato, pader o bakal na maaaring pagtalbugan ng bala sa nagtatagong kaaway. Pihadong sapul ito.  Kung medyo bihasa ka na nga e na gaya ko, maari ka pa ngang mamili kung saan mo patatamaan -- sa ulo ba, sa pagitan ng mata, o di kaya sa hawak niyang baril para ma-disarma na lang.  Nasa anggulo lang yan, parang karambola sa bilyar. Mahusay dyan ang cabalen kong si Hepren.  Sigurado ako, pag na-master ng ating mga kawal yun, wala ng makakapagtago na kaaway.

Eh kung iisa na lang ang bala at dalawa pa ang kaaway?  Dapat may baon ka laging punyal.  Napanood niyo ba yon?    Klasik yon ha, nahirapan akong isipin yung eksena na yon.  Ilalagay mo yung talim sa harap ng butas ng baril, itutok ang baril sa gitna ng dalawang kaaway, kalabitin ang gatilyo -- bang. Patay. Patay.  Tipid sa bala di ba?

From vidoemo.com

Pero maubusan man ako ng bala, palaban pa rin ang kamao ko.  Aba, kung inyong matatanong, 'di na rin mabilang ang nagapi nang aking mga bigwas.  Gusto ko nga sanang ituro kay Congressman Manny Pacquiao ang mga galaw ko, kanya lang baka maakusahan ako na 'di ginagalang ang enter the parelementary kortesi, yun bang nakikialam sa diskarte ng ibang bahay.  Yung maybahay ko nga eh 'di ko pinapakialaman kahit nahuli sa Las Vegas.  Aba eh kung makikialam ako doon eh di nakalkal din ang kayamanan at dolyares ko.

From jmthebest.com

Huwag na nga nating  pagusapan si misis, matanda na yun.  Di ko nga maintindihan kung bakit kinabitan ng bracelet sa paa, para daw laging malaman kung nasaan siya.  Aba, iniinsulto nyo naman si esmi, eh di naman maliligaw yun, nakapunta nga sa US mag-isa eh, pinakita lang niya yung paspor niya sa erpor tapos bahala na yung drayber ng erplen na maghatid sa kanya.  Basta alam na nya yon.

Uminit nga yung ulo ko ng maigi, gusto ko tuloy sila masampolan nung tinatawag na pompyang, yung bang kakalembangen mo nang parehong palad mo ang tig-isang tenga ng kaaway mo, tapos bibigwasan mo ng kaliwa na magpapatilapon sa kanya kung saan may mesa na maari mong talunan na naka-landing ka sa tuhod mo, sabay bigwas ng kanan at mapa-padpad ang kalaban mo sa may puno na may leter-Y na sanga, kung saan mo idudungaw ang iyong mukha na kagyat naman uumangan ng suntok ng damuhong na kaaway mo, na iyo namang iilagan at sasaluhin ng kamay ang kanyang kamao, samantalang ang isa mong kamao ay dadapo sa kanyang bodega -- uugghh!  At siya ay tutumba. At may tatakbo sa iyong magandang dalaga na nakadamit na puting seda na bakat nang kaunti ang suot niyang tangga, tapos kayo ay maghahalikan at magyayapusan.

Sino bang mag-aakala na ang isang anak ng labandera ay magiging senador na gaya ko.  Ako nga, ang alam ko eh sasamahan ko lang ang cabalen kong si Madam Gloria sa pagkamay sa mga tao sa buong Pinas, sabi niya kasi mga nakapanood lahat sila ng mga pelikula ko, pans ba.  Eh dapat lang naman akong personal na magpasalamat, di ba?  Yun pala eleksyon.  Sa susunod, di na ko tatakbo sa senado.  Ayaw ko na 'tong ganitong may impitsment, 'di ako makatulog, ang dami kayang kamerang nakatutok.  Siguro, preseden na lang.  Ay, bays preseden na lang muna, baka sabihin nila masyado akong ambisyoso, wala yata akong pelikulang ganon. Ayaw ko namang manloko ng tao.

From pinoyparazzi.com

Sana matapos na 'tong impitsmen trial, marami pa naman akong debateng nais pakinggan sa regular na sesyon namin, lalo na yung sa reprodaktib hell bill kung saan maari kong ibahagi ang malawak kong kaalaman sa paglikha nang beybi.  Hoy, 'di yan syowbis ha, ekspert talaga tayo dyan.  By the way, may syuting din ako ng bago kong teleserye, makakayapos na naman ako ng magandang dalaga.  Ayos, pa din naman akong artista eh, walang nagbago.  Tignan ninyo, pagdating ng syowing sa dos, makikita niyo na iyon na iyon pa rin ang akting ko. Konsisten ba. 'Di gaya nitong impitsmen jads ako, na alam ko namang wala akong karapatan dahil di naman tayo perpekto.  Kung magiging spokesgel ko lang ang dati kong asawang si Melanie Marquez, sasabihin niya: Don't jads Jastis Corona, he is nat a book!

Sana nga magsuntukan na lang si Preseden Noynoy at si Tsip Jastis, para malaman kung sino ang totoong matapang.  Eh 'di pag natumba  ang isa, eh di kwits na.


I'd love to hear what you think of this article. Please leave a comment or a reaction. Thanks!

How to protect Maliputo from a thieving cat

DISCLAIMER:  The author of this article is not in any way or form an animal hater.  Any mention or insinuation of antagonistic feelings against animals, or images or actions that may be construed as cruelty to animals have been compelled by unacceptable animal behavior.   No animal has been harmed in the making of this blog.

From batanggenyo.net

Maliputo is a fresh water fish endemic to Taal Lake.  It is known for its white, firm flesh that tastes best when grilled or when mixed in sinigang.  Because its supply is limited, Maliputo is a bit expensive; and thus only served on special occasions, for special people.

Maliputo's notoriety as a fine table fish is not just local.  When my Tia Amanda, who permanently resides in the US, told a Pinoy friend there that she was coming over to Lipa for a visit, the friend who apparently has been here told her that she shouldn't miss out on the Maliputo.  I didn't know of that conversation when I thought of preparing that particular fish for her homecoming dinner.

I am the resident tour guide/cook/driver when there are guests in the house.  So the day I was to pickup my aunt at the airport, I woke up early to buy maliputo, which I planned to roast in the afternoon.

The day went on as planned; I ticked off my duties fairly well, without glitches that can ruin the schedule, or my aunt's homecoming -- that is, until later in the day when I was about to take the maliputo off the grill and onto the dining table.  To my horror, the fish was not on the grill but on the ground, with the darn cat that adopted our house as her own, on top of it - relishing the crisp skin and tender but juicy flesh of the maliputo that I lovingly prepared for my Tia Amanda.   I let out a muffled curse as the cat deftly eluded my swinging foot (I assure animal lovers that it was just to shoo the darn cat away and to let off some steam as well), leaving behind the mangled remains of what should have been the highlight of the dinner table.
Apparently, the darn cat also knew how special maliputo was because I've grilled many fish before, tilapia, bangus and pusit, among others, plus liempo and all cuts of meat, but never had that darn cat try to steal even a piece - not until this.

From zeal4adventure.com

I had no power to tell my aunt that the darn cat got her fish, but I had time to hurriedly motor to town to buy whatever roasted fish was available.  Inihaw na bangus was the best that I could do

Dinner time came and my Tia Amanda commented that the maliputo is no different from bangus.  So I had to let the cat, that darn cat, out of the bag, so to speak.  She said it was okay, at least the cat had her full.  We also had ours, minus the maliputo. And I vowed that, given the chance, I wouldn't let such thievery happen again.

I know men are on top of the food chain.  But it doesn't mean that we are going to devour every living thing that crosses our path, or wrongs us.  I had an ongoing issue with a neighbor's dog  (See my story about my quarrel with a dog), and now - a cat that adopted our house.  Darn animals just wouldn't leave me alone.  I'm just thankful that I can still think rationally, otherwise you would hear on the news about a tall man having a dogfight, literally, with a muscular but squat dog, or skinning a maliputo-stealing darn cat.  Thank God, for human intellect.

I got my chance to redeem myself a week after my aunt came back to Lipa from a whirlwind trip that took her from her hometown in Pangasinan, to various places in the north and in Metro Manila.  This time I was prepared to protect my grill.  And my pride.

The grill and the darn cat

My grill is about 3 feet high, with about a foot by two feet grilling area.  But I would only use a portion, just enough for the headless and tailless (the cut parts used for sinigang) fish, leaving enough room - if left unprotected -  for the darn cat to quickly spring on top of the grill and with cat-quick reflexes, swipe at the fish so it falls on the ground, ready to be ravaged.

Being an intelligent human, I decided to think like a cat.  Prrrr.... meoooww... what would prrrevent me frrrom getting that tasty maliputo on top of that grrrrrill? Surrrrely, that darrrrrn tall human can't keep watch overrrrr it the whole time it cooks.  Hhhhhmmmm..... prrrrr..... meoooww... oh no..... prrrrrr....meeooww... I hope he does not put a barrrricade on top of the fish  orrrrr else I won't be able to rrrreach it.   Prrrr....meeooww.

No darn cat paws allowed!

Chi-ching! A light bulb illuminates my  brain and brings a smile to my lips. I quickly gathered branches and twigs from the garden and assembled my version of a dome over the cooking maliputo.  This would serve as a barrier from the cat's prying paws in case it attempts to mount the grill and takes a quick swipe.

At least the darn cat tried

My plan worked perfectly.  And I had the darn cat drooling at the slowly roasting maliputo, with no chance at getting an easy feast.  My Tia Amanda finally got to taste maliputo.  And she concluded, it does not taste or look like bangus.

I regained my smile.  My pride included.  And I was able to put that darn cat in her proper place -- eating leftover and tinik.  I hope she learned her lesson not to mess with the Curious Biker.

Search the image for one frustrated darn cat

My memories are being uprooted

One of the fondest memories I have of childhood adventures is when I was still a grade schooler and travelling alone on a bus going to far away Pangasinan.  Nope, I was not running away from home but out on an errand or on to a short vacation.

My mother is from that province, and  I often tagged along with her as she regularly went home to bring money or some important document to relatives - too often, I guess, that I became familiar with what buses to ride and where to get off to hire short rides, all the way from Fernando Air Base, Lipa to Barangay Amagbagan, Pozzurobio, Pangasinan.  Because I learned my way around I soon volunteered to make the quick trips for my Nanay, whom I reasoned out should just stay and rest at home; reminding her that she deserved a decent rest after working all week.  Of course, I also had my own motives.  I must have been trustworthy and responsible enough that my mother gave me her consent to travel alone.

Mount Arayat

I was not scared travelling all by myself.  In fact, I relished my independence and the trust given me.  I preferred to take the window seat as I can plaster my face on the glass panel and take in every view that fleetingly whizzed by as the bus hurtled forward.  I loved the large rivers and rice fields of Bulacan, the frenetic stops at Dau and the weird shape of Mount Arayat in Pampanga, and the stretch of Mac Arthur Highway from Tarlac all the way to where I get off.

The trees of MacArthur highway

The Mac Arthur Highway -- lined by towering mango, narra and acacia trees on both sides and snaking endlessly in long straight stretches and emptying to occasional gentle loops-- heightened my anticipation of my homecoming because I knew that the road was drawing me closer to my destination, and the warmth and welcome of my Tios and Tias, who treated such visits with joy and eagerness.  I would marvel at how the trees from both sides of the road reached and touched each other's canopy 30 to 40 feet in the air, creating protection for commuters from the harsh sun of central Luzon and a blanket of security to a young child anxious to get home.  When the bus would pass the town of Binalonan, I knew I was only minutes away from getting off at Cablong.   By then, the trees would seem to me a bit bigger in girth and taller in height.

Regardless if my visit to Pangasinan lasted a weekend or an entire summer, my stay was always filled with pleasant memories of eating vegetables and fish and meat at the papag while listening to my elders talk animatedly in their native tongue, watching TV at night as I had my late night snack of bread, peanut butter and a cup of hot Ovaltine, and in the daytime, wandering in the rice fields, catching fish with a worm bait, or simply wading around the clear stream underneath creaking bamboo groves.

My Tia Abe, Tia Amanda, niece Daniele, Tio Ito, Tia Lulu and my nanay

Today, only a few of my mother's siblings are alive.  They are now much older, and so am I.  The food still consist mainly of vegetables and fish, but no longer as tasty because my folks - because of health reasons -  no longer use bagoong to season their food.  Bread and hot choco can still be had at night if I choose to, though I no longer find it appealing.  The stream further back from our house is still there, ever as clear, and ever hidden by towering bamboo poles that creak and sway with every whiff of the breeze.

The stream that runs at the back of our house

A visit at this old place still brings me intense sentiments.  However, this joy is tinged with a pang of longing for the innocent years gone by and the painful reality that all these - the people that I love and this place that nurtured my childhood - will soon pass.  Everything will become a memory someday.

But even my memories are being assailed by reality.  The towering trees, some perhaps a century old already, along Mac Arthur Highway are being  cut down to give way to road widening projects intended to keep traffic moving faster for trade and commerce, for city people out on a road trip to interesting places, and for locals who are quickly beginning to appreciate the  benefits of convenience.

Soon there would no longer be shaded roads that are colored with the fragrant bright yellow-orange flowers of narra, or children whose faces are plastered on the bus or car window imagining ogres perched on the high branches of old mango trees, or elves hiding inside the gnarly recesses of the acacias.  In place of these would be stories of extremely hot but very fast rides under the scorching sun of Central Luzon that would be quenched by a quick stop at a Jollibee for a refreshing soda and sweet spaghetti.

Like progress, memories are made everyday.  And while I wish that mine would go on forever and will be shared by today's generation, there's nothing I can do about it except remember.  Progress is the enemy of sentimentality.  Now, it is uprooting my memories.


I would appreciate it dearly if you can leave a comment or a reaction to this story; more so if you can also share your childhood memories.

Impeachment Trial, starring: Atty Karen Jimeno

From onlineknowledge.org

I never thought I would be writing something that expresses admiration for a woman other than my wife.  But here it is, and I don't feel like I am cheating.  First time I saw her was in the news, talking about how her client would be proven innocent of  all charges levied against him.  Needless to say, she immediately caught my attention.  She was ethereally pretty, smart and articulate -- a refreshing contrast to pretty showbiz B-rated lasses whose statements never run out of sobra, and super, like "Super ganda netong show namen, as in sobra.  Sobra namen pinaghirapan to kaya super mage-enjoy kayo dito."


I am talking about Attorney Karen Jimeno, of course, the spokesperson for Chief Justice Renato Corona's defense team in his impeachment trial at the Senate.

The live trial coverage is compelling TV for anyone with an interest in what's going on in our country.  From the looks of it, it's going to be on TV a lot longer than our nation needs.  So there are production values that I wish can be looked into.  The choice of main characters, mainly.  Unfortunately, trials are not acted out by actors whose primary assets are their looks or showbiz pedigree, but headlined by legal luminaries whose ticket to fame is their ability to interpret and defend the law whichever way it favors their client.

From globalbalita.com

Here lies the problem for me.  While I appreciate the brilliance of the legal minds in the show, on the defense more particularly, I however can't look too long on the rather dull, if not unappealing faces and posturings of  the litigants.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not too good looking myself; but local TV has spoiled me with eye candies with less than impressive talent that I'm craving for the usual telegenic faces to go with the already compelling plot.  I'm looking for a compromise between intelligent discourse and visual appeal.  Something that Atty Jimeno provides by the truckload.

Too bad that she does not get to tussle with the prosecutors on the court itself.  She could have given some Senator Judges like Bong Revilla and Lito Lapid (Click for a pseudo train of thought of Senator Judge Lapid), more specially, something that they could understand -- beauty.  And when she speaks in her effortless but authoritative manner? Wow, why can't all lawyers be like her?  I mean, the prosecution members, because of their sloppy looks and laughable articulation, are already at a disadvantage in as far as making a good impression is concerned.  And I have not even mentioned that Justice Cuevas is making them look like bungling amateurs.

Images from onlineknowledge.org, Adel Tamano ANC FB Fanpage, newsinfo.inquirer.net

Imagine if both sides of  the litigation court are lined by brilliant, good looking and articulate lawyers like Atty Jimeno and Congressman Prosecutor Miro Quimbo (my wife voted for him when she was a freshman at the State U and he was running for Student Council), we can have a show that is both nourishing for the mind and refreshing to the eyes.  Definitely, must see TV.   I am sure that if the trial drags on for months, the two would have showbiz offers on their table when everything is said and done.

But I know that can never happen.  So I have to endure watching lawyers with foreheads reflecting light harshly, or making annoying gestures with their hands and jerky head movements, while dropping bombs like apter, bepor, Chip Jastis Roberto Corona, and deed of absolot-le sale.  Grrrr!


I'd love to hear your comment or reaction on this article. Thanks!  The Curious Biker

Are you happy with your name?

Image from realbollywood.com

Can you imagine hearing this line in a movie:  Hi, my name is Bond -- James "The Real Thing" Bond, son of Joseph "The Original" Bond of Lexington, England, not to be mistaken for James "The Earl" Bond of Norwich?

It's such a mouthful that the snappy and memorable James Bond name becomes a loose and forgettable punchline.

Allow me to use self-deprecating humor as I try to expunge a rather embarrassing deed that stemmed from a knee-jerk reaction, out of my system.  You see, today is the first month of my blog at Blogger.  And I can't get over the fact that I named it "therealcuriousbiker," as if somebody was pretending to be me, or worse, has the same wild imagination as to put curious and biker together -- oh my, the height of conceit, and I'm in the middle of it!

A little more than a month ago, my first web host Wordpress suspended my original blog www.curiousbiker.com because of a spam intrusion (They have reinstated it, but I have since moved on). Devastated but determined to post my Christmas story Wish, I decided to open a new one at Blogger -- this site.

curiousbiker.com no more

Thinking that my loyal readers from Wordpress should distinguish me from other bloggers, and assure them that it was me that they were reading and not some weird dude on a bike, I hurriedly typed the pretentious and super insecure "therealcuriousbiker" as my blog name.  Well, what's done is done and there's nothing I can do about it except flog myself until I exorcise myself from the embarrassment of having a blog that begins with "the real."

But what's in a name, really?  Well, judging by the amount of time that most expectant parents deliberate and sometimes argue over it, then I guess  it's a lot.

From digital-photography-school.com

My parents though were not as imaginative when it came to giving names.  My eldest brother Emerito was named after our mother Emerita; Rico, the second eldest, bore half the name of my father Teodorico, followed by Santiago who was the namesake of my uncle Santiago who was himself, the junior of our grandfather Santiago.  I don't know where Ramon, my next brother's name came from, perhaps it was from Ramon Magsaysay, or could just very well have been a product of a coin toss between Ramon and Roman. Same goes for my next older brother Gerardo, who sometimes wished that the birth certificate registrar should have just omitted the letter "o," to give him that oh-so French-sounding name: Gerard, perfect for a little brown baby.  And me?  The very proletariat-sounding Marcial, not that I am not one, but come on, something like Keith or Johnston would have sounded good on another brown little baby like me.

But no.  Being proletariats (masa, if you're having a hard time) themselves, my parents did not have time for humor nor of keeping me away from future insecurity.  I was born a day after an anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law.  So with a little tweak on the spelling, I was named after a horrendous event in our nation's history.  And I was not even born on the exact anniversary!  I suppose because I was a fairly long baby -- all 22 inches of me -- my mother probably started to labor on the 20th, saw my feet came out on the 21st (exact anniversary), but by the time my entire body popped out, it was already the 22nd. But I don't have any recollection of my birth, nor of the time when I was baptized with my permanent name, who knows, perhaps they were asking me "O anak, anong gusto mong pangalan mo?"  But what can a baby do? I couldn't even mutter dada then, let alone Keith.  So when the first sound that came out of me was a wail, then it was settled -- I would be named Marcial, and there's nothing I could do about it.

From westoncommunication.org.uk

It could have been worse, I know.  They could have just as easily named me Post Marcial or Almost Marcial, and I would have, as a baby, done the close-open thing with my hands whenever my parents or elder brothers felt like playing with me: "Close...Open, Post Marcial; Close...Open, Post Marcial.  I'm relieved and thankful that I never had to go through that.  Life is good.  So I tried to cope with my name.

When we grew older, and without us talking about it, me and most of my brothers separately introduced ourselves as Jinx when we each went into college in the big city.  Jinx is short for Enjinx, a name resulting from the mispronunciation of our family name Enginco, which should be pronounced "en-hing-ko," and not "en-ging-ko" as was the common mistake of many.  Jinx had a nice ring to it, kind of mysterious and a bit on the naughty side.  It also gave a thin veneer of confidence to an insecure probinsyano suddenly immersed in city lights.

From pinoyexchange.com

It turned out that I wasn't the only one disturbed by my given name.  A classmate introduced himself as Allan, a name that suits his tall and masculine physique, movie-star good looks and model-like fashion sense.  He was the epitome of metrosexual long before that word became fashionable.  During our time, he was described in explicit terminology -- makalaglag panting kagwapuhan.  Heck, if I was gay I would have had a crush on him and would have taken advantage of him because we were good friends.

But his school ID, which he clipped (ID laces were still in the invention stage) so that his name and picture faced his chest, clearly stated, in capital letters that he was DELFIN -- a name that conjures a picture of a short, buri-hatted, dark-skinned man wearing kamisa-de-chino and canvas drawstring pants, holding on to a bayong containing native chicken; certainly, not some gorgeous hunk who made girls swoon with a drop of his fingers.

Rustico or Allan? From baliktanaw.wordpress.com

I asked him why the name Allan.  He explained that it was in honor of his grandfather Allan.  I thought to myself, come on, Allan my ass!  If your name is Delfin, then surely your lolo must be a Rustico, or a Gorgonio, or a Geronimo or any name that was fashionable back in the days when Filipinos still had leftover angst against the Spanish occupation and still fresh from the euphoria of American liberation over the Japanese.  I mean, can you picture an old man named Allan?  Nope, I don't think so.

But I called him Allan just as long as he called me Jinx.  And we were friends with Charlie Brown -- and that's his real name and nickname, which suited him for he was a chubby, rosy-cheeked Chinese-mestizo, English-speaking conyo.   By then, I was beginning to like the sound of  my name as my Manilenyo classmates pronounced it with a rolling "r" and a sliding "s" so it sounded more like Morr-sshhall, than the jologs sounding Mar-syal.

There are always exceptions to the rule though as proletariat names can sometimes be very cool, too. My best friend in college was named Pag-alay, which I thought was most appropriate for a very pretty and very intelligent girl; a perfect offering or a gift to the gods if ever there was one.   Her father,  a nationalistic lawyer, named her two other brothers Pag-alab ang Pag-diwang.  Those are cool names according to my standards.

I guess giving children names that they won't like was contained in the first editions of Good Parenting magazine, to fortify the child's character as he grows older.  You know, overcome an insecurity and you become more secure of yourself, and thus more in control of what you can do?  Or it could have been an old-school ploy to make a child mature into a fighter who would redeem his proletariat-sounding name to announce to the world that: I am Marcial and you are reading my blog, or I am Delfin and I'm going to operate on your heart, or I am Pag-alay and I am going to save you from lethal injection!

I no longer hate my name, in fact I love it -- Marcial I. Enginco.  It sounds strong and authoritative, respectable even.  It sounds, well, me.  And yes, I am also therealcuriousbiker.  Nothing wrong with it either, right?

-------

My mother taught me long ago that I should always put my middle initial every time I write my name, in honor of her family lineage -- the Itliongs of Pozorrubio, Pangasinan.


I'd like to know what you think of this article.  Please leave a comment or a reaction.  And if you did not like your name as well what did you do so that you eventually grew into it?

Warning: Old people working

Original image from flickr.com

In the early 2000s, when I was much younger, more naive and still working and residing in Makati, my wife and I chanced upon an old man on our way home.  He was, in my estimation, in his 70's.  He was frail, reed thin, hunched and struggling with his movement as he tried to put one foot ahead of the other -- his entire body gyrating wildly that he had to use every ounce of his energy if only to remain upright.  Only one of his hands was free which he put to use by grabbing on to any thing solid -- an electric post, a steel railing, or a plant -- to keep his body from falling on the pavement, his other hand held on tightly to a portfolio.

People -- bystanders, passengers of  jeeps, taxis and private vehicles, working masses on their way home or to the mall -- gawked as he writhed forward, alarmed and bothered, as I was.  No one did anything more than stare and offer a cringed look to suggest mercy for the old man's plight, except for me and my wife who gallantly approached the  old man to ask him where he was going.

But before he could answer our question, he volunteered where he was earlier that day.  He flipped open the pages of his portfolio to show his hospital records at PGH where he explained that, in a trembling, half-whisper voice, the doctors no longer wanted to treat him or provide for his medicines, nor is the PCSO willing to shoulder his medical expenses.  He said he has given up hope, as he proceeded to struggle forward once more.

I held his arm to brace his footfall and I could feel the old man's bone creak beneath the thin muscle under his wrinkled skin.  I asked him again where he was going, and he said to Cavite, where he lived.  Cavite was a long ways from the Makati Square area where we were, and he was walking away from where I know he can catch a ride to that faraway place.  So I told him,"Lo, eh hindi po dyan ang sakayan papunta sa inyo."  I offered to at least bring him to where he can catch his ride.  He refused and instead continued on his way, albeit ever so slowly that it was impossible for him to leave us behind, and the help we were then convinced to give.

I excavated P200 from my wallet and offered it to the old man, which he took with a gracious, "Salamat mga apo, pagpalain nawa kayo ng Diyos."  We turned around with a heavy heart, wishing that the old man would be alright.  It was a prayer that would be answered after a few days.

From a Facebook post

I recalled this incident because a few days ago I encountered on Facebook a similar story. The characters may be different but the circumstances were oddly familiar: old person, struggling to move, meets young person, willing to help.

Life, sometimes is a series of coincidences.  The other day, as I was biking my way home from a short ride around the Lipa-Lodlod-Pangao-San Jose loop, I chanced upon a roadside stall that sold dalanghita.  At only P15 a kilo, I can have a pasalubong for my wife and still have a P5 change out of my usual P20 baon.

The fruit stand was tended by, what do you know, another very old woman, maybe pushing on 80, if not already there.  She had a very steelly air about her, not really ideal for someone whose intent is to sell her wares.  But it is the dalanghita that I wanted and the old woman's presence was just incidental.  So I asked, "Matamis po ba 'to, lola?"  And she answered,"Ay, 'di tikman mo," as she shoved a fruit my way.

I observed her as I peeled the dalanghita.  She was looking back at me as I scanned her dark expressionless face, lined by the length of years behind her.  "Asin?  Kaunti la-ang dahil ayan naman ay matam-is," as she offered an open small glass jar with her coarse hand and thick, gnarly fingers.

I tried to make light of the situation by acknowledging that indeed, her dalanghita was sweet and juicy as she had claimed.  She only nodded, "Ba-inte pa yan sa palengke."

It was around 4:30 in the afternoon and students from a nearby public elementary school were passing by on foot on their way to their respective homes; some noisily, others  running, and a few alone.  One boy, with a streak of liquid running down a nostril, passed by, and demanded, "Lola, pahingi ng isa"

This riled the old woman. "Aba'y hihingi ka naman?!" she shot back with a mean stare.

"Eto lang naman ho," the boy fingering one of the three fruits that were obviously set aside for they were damaged or had already signs of rotting.

The old woman did not protest when the boy picked up one of the fruits.  Instead she handed another fruit, a good one, "Oh, ayan. Alis na!"  The boy left smiling, not even saying thank you.

"Ay ganyan yaan lagi, ay sasabihin, ay kami'y mahirap laang," she shared with a hint of irritation in her voice.  "Ay imik ko, ako ga'y mukhang mayaman?"

She handed me a plastic bag containing a kilo of dalanghita in exchange for my P20.  She searched for a P5 coin as I placed my fruits inside my bag.  I can see that she only had a handful of bills, 50s and some 20s, in her purse-- proof that she was not selling much.

She gave me my change.  As I was about to mount my bike, she asked, "Saan ka ga uuwi?  And I told her, not far, just behind the military base which was only about a kilometer away.  "Ay siya sige, mag-ingat ka, bumili ka ulit dito ha," she bade without showing a tinge of emotion.

"Sige po, La," and she simply nodded, the sagging skin around her eyes failing to mask the defiant sheen of her stare that asked for neither mercy, nor sympathy.  I was just another customer out of several, and it was just another day out of many where honest living can be had.

It is now 2012.  I am older, wiser and perhaps more jaded; a far cry from what I was in the early 2000's when I was easily moved by dramatic scenes of perceived  inequality and social injustice.  Though, I haven't lost my love for humanity or my belief in the innate goodness of man, experience has thought me not to be easily swayed by what I see on the surface because there is always a story that we may not see, but would clearly explain, however strange, why things are the way they are.

Around a week after the sad incident with the frail, old man I was at an intersection waiting for the traffic light to signal that I could cross the street.  And lo and behold, to my side was the old man also doing the same.  I looked at him intently and his eyes met mine, I knew he did not recognize me for it was only a  fleeting glance.  He was merely scanning strange faces.   But I was sure it was him.  I could not forget his thin, swept back hair, his freckled face and his lean frame.

By the time the traffic light changed color, a small crowd had accumulated that left little elbow room to move around.  On cue, we all stepped forward -- the old man included.  But his step was sure and not belabored; in fact, he was agile and sprite.  He seemed to be in a hurry as he nimbly maneuvered around slower moving pedestrians like a teenager late for a date; no sign whatsoever of the malaise that bedeviled his tired body only a few days ago.  It's either he has found the fountain of youth, or, I humbly admitted -- I was had by the old man.

I am not saying that the old woman that a Facebook citizen met and helped took advantage of the innate kindness of a stranger but the circumstances that surrounded her story are eerily similar from those of my experience with the old man who can barely move.  I believe that there is no limit to what the human spirit can do, but I must also admit that there is no age limit to people who would take advantage  of those who are only too willing to share their heart.


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Confessions of an ex-professor

In the unique hierarchy of the academe, I cannot be called a professor.  In fact, I barely qualify as a Lecturer -- the lowest rung in the ladder.  But I decided to use it in this article's title because, just like in the academe, it has a nice ring to it.


I was still given the opportunity to teach in college despite of my academic credential's lack of a masteral degree.  Like every passionate teacher, the five years that I spent as a part-time teacher gave me some of the most frustrating moments, but also some of the most fulfilling highs of my life.

I was able to handle a merry mix of subjects that ranged from Advertising and Public Relations, to all sorts of English and English related subjects, to Writing, to Arts Appreciation, to Entrepreneurship and Marketing, to Literature, and in my last year -- Filipino, three different courses of it.  Of all, three remained dearest to me: Advertising, Public Relations, and World Literature.

Teaching Advertising and Public Relations gave me the chance to share my extensive industry experience to young students who aspire to be part of the world that I was once, and now only vaguely part of.  Introducing this often exciting, sometimes intriguing, and always cutthroat profession to wide-eyed dreamers, and showing them how they can be part of it given the limited preparation that they have in school, gave me a sense that I was playing an important part in the shaping of still malleable lives -- a grave responsibility that I took seriously, and a humbling realization that I relished dearly.

I was not easy to please when I was teaching these subjects, and my students can attest to this.  In fact, whenever I gave my students projects that would require them to apply book theories into simulated real-life applications, I never, not even once, approved a concept or a proposal at the first instance. Everyone had to present a new set of concepts till I was slightly satisfied, by that I mean that the proposal has caught a slim chance of being considered, let alone approved, if my students were part of an Ad agency or a PR firm submitting real life industry-grade proposals to an exacting client.  And it was not unusual that I  would still be unhappy even with the last and final concept that a student or a group will present.

A consistent dean's lister who got this same treatment commented, perhaps in half jest and the other half in frustration, "Aba'y wala na yatang magaling kay sir, eh!"  Well, true and false.

While I did not have high expectations as far as the quality of the materials that the students can produce (They are still, after all, students), I did not see it as a reason for me to lower my standard because I believed that I was preparing them for a future where people are tough, sometimes mean, and often competitive.  It would be a dishonor to my students if, after having seen and experienced what it was like in the real world, that I would give them the false idea that what they were producing were good enough where it mattered most -- in real life jobs.

Stringent as I was with my standard, I had to make sure that I did not destroy my students' confidence.  So while I thumbed down proposal after proposal, I also gave them glimpses of how they can improve their concepts or pursue angles that they may not have considered.  And when they react, "Ahhh, oo nga ano. Ang galing talaga ni Sir!"  I smile with supreme satisfaction not because I was praised, but because I know I opened a new door of possibilities.

But the highest form of satisfaction comes not inside the classroom but outside of it, long after the students have become my students.  When I would find out that my former wards have landed prime jobs and are in fact doing well, or encounter those who would report, "Sir, kung ano po yung ginagawa natin sa klase, iyon din po ang ginagawa namin sa trabaho."  I know that I prepared them well.

I once bumped into the student who complained about my toughness in class.  She has landed an enviable job in a prestigious company.  However, she said that working for her boss was rough, as if she was always not good enough.  I felt sorry for her.  But knowing how diligent and driven she was, I know she was going to be fine.  I just wish that her encounter with reality was not as harsh.  As I always reminded my students, never think that you are good enough, but have a mindset that you can still be better; the former reeking of brittle confidence, the latter underlining one's hunger for more knowledge that fills the gaps that would make one more capable.

While teaching Advertising and Public Relations  allowed me to prepare the way for successful careers, teaching Literature entitled me to unlock minds and open eyes to deeper appreciation of life and the written word's power over it and with it.

Again, I am not academically prepared to be a literature teacher.   I cannot quote memorable words from the demigods of  prose nor drop a line or two from Frost, even if my life depended on it.  What I had were questions; questions that made my students ponder and uncomfortable in their seats. I asked questions that challenged what they think, and even believe in.

I was the ultimate Devil's Advocate.  I would grill a student no end regardless if I completely agree with his point or not.  I did so because I wanted my students to think critically, to analyze and defend their point, to make them see that each issue can be viewed from several angles, and most importantly, I wanted them to grow as human beings whose views, thoughts and ideas are important, and thus need to be voiced out, and instigators of change in their lives and those of people that would cross their path.

I loved to open  a lesson with a question that left a quizzed look on my students' faces.  The more puzzled or disturbed they are, the more exciting the ensuing discussion would become.  And the more ideas and thoughts that flowed and are exchanged, the clearer and more pleasant my students' faces would eventually become.  When I see a student's face light up in that elusive eureka moment, or nod, or smile in a sign of agreement -- my heart leaps in utter bliss.  It is what I lived for as a teacher.  And in my years as one, I've had plenty of those moments -- enough to last me a lifetime.

Students are funny when they are disturbed by an idea, or deep in thought.  Some look away, lost in their own world, some fidget or unconsciously make little but repetitious movements like twirling strands of hair or excavating dirt from fingernails.  And as the only person inside the classroom facing everyone -- I could observe who would like to share what they were thinking -- those few who may not raise their hand but won't break eye contact either.

One of these was Anne Latayan Lado-ing.

What struck me first about Anne was that she was unusually tall.  But when seated like the rest of the class, her attentive gaze and full concentration assured a teacher like me, that there would always be a student to call on to, to share what's on her mind.  And she did speak her mind.  In fact, she was one of the students that I enjoyed peppering questions because she never backed out of any argument or discussion.  She is the kind of student that makes teaching such a joy and challenge.

A former student who never failed to greet me on Teacher's Day told me that a student will always remember a good teacher.  And I told him that a good teacher never forgets a good student.  I remember him.  I remember Anne.  I remember a lot of students.  And  I thank everyone of you for allowing me to be, even for a semester or two, a part of your life.

Like I always say, I'll see you when I see you.


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My Devotion to the Black Nazarene of Quiapo

The author of this article, Anne Latayan Lado-ing  took up Legal Management at De La Salle Lipa where she was the Student Government Executive President.  She was also Youth Commission Ambassador, a champion debater and speaker, among others.  She was adjudged one of the Top Ten Students of De La Salle before she graduated. Ms Lado-ing is now studying law.

Image from manilagateway.com

It all started in January 9, 1996 when my mom gave birth to my younger sister. They were both in danger. Mom told me that she prayed to the Black Nazarene to save them both and made a promise that we’ll go every year in Quiapo as a way of thanksgiving for answering her prayer.

To count, it has been 15 years of attending the Feast of the Black Nazarene. Every year something always changes. One noticeable change is the growing number of devotees who come to mass and attend the procession. Before, we used to leave the house at 4am and yet we can still sit inside the church to hear the mass.

Witnessing the procession was also possible since, at that time, it passed  by the smaller streets of Quiapo. Madali lang makiakyat sa 2nd floor ng buildings para maiabot sa Ijos (Volunteers who ride with Black Nazarene on the karosa) ang panyo. I guess it’s really talent how they can return all of those to their rightful owners. As in, madami talaga and people are waving their white hankies as the procession passes by the streets.

From filipinotraveler.com

But since the route changed, with Quirino Grandstand as the starting point, the number of participants doubled.  We decided to have a little adjustment as well. This year, we left the house earlier, 1:36am to be exact -- much earlier than the usual and just in time for the second mass.

When you are walking in the middle of Quiapo, you would see vendors selling stuffs, mostly t-shirts, towels, oils, etc. with the print of the image of the Black Nazarene.  You would also encounter fortune tellers, policemen and other men in uniform with bomb sniffing dogs scattered within the vicinity, which is scary (of course, the terrorism threat).

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

Ambulances were stationed in several locations; expectation was that there would be casualties but hopefully it would be minimal. I remember it was in 2001 that I became a statistic. I passed out slowly while singing Ama Namin. No one would like to be in that situation but at least, I felt the innate goodness of complete strangers around me -- vendors volunteered to help me, one guy even ran to buy hot milk and even returned the change. The woman selling candles took care of my sister while I was still regaining consciousness. You see, this is not the usual Quiapo depicted or described in movies (No Other Woman scene of Cristine Reyes and Carmi Martin). Good individuals live in this place. You just have to give them the chance.

ABS-CBN and GMA vans were setting their equipment to cover the event on TV. I even bumped into a cameraman who asked me to stand in view of his lens, which I declined politely. (Mahirap na baka maging sikat. Haha!)

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

In this kind of scenario, you got to have the ability of Lastikman. Good thing the three of us have this gift. My mom, sister and I stood near the entrance. Surprisingly, the church was filled with devotees (imagine the church was so full of worshippers that you can't find a space to fit in though just about everyone was already standing).  This is definitely not the typical scene for a 3:00am mass, if you had been there every year, as we were.  You can sense the alacrity of people inside and outside of the church.

Even the ambiance felt different than what we were accustomed to. My other companions, Lola and Ninang, were separated from us due to the huge volume of people. Amazingly, we saw them when we were pushed forward to have the communion with the Priests (first time yun in 15 years, lagi kasing sa lay minister kami napapatapat)
.
There were also scary moments when a group of men went inside. One stayed at my right and the other at the back while the rest went out of sight. Call me paranoid, but I can’t help the feeling that they were up to no good. I was terrified when policemen came in rushing with bomb sniffing dogs. Lingon tuloy lahat ng nandoon sa likod parang eksena sa pelikula. I told God, “Kayo na po ang bahala sa amin.”   A few minutes later, all were pacified and back to normal. The mass ended peacefully.

All wanted to quickly exit the church since people were already doubling as the sun rose. Mahirap maglakad palabas kasi puno na ng tao ang bawat daanan.   At 4AM, my sister Grace were walking briskly to where our vehicle was parked when we passed two men shouting at each other. Away kalye ika nga. My sister told me, “Ate lakad ng mabilis dali!”. Kaloka! I almost slipped. We continued walking. Bands began to march, together with barefooted men and women wearing maroon and yellow. Some were carrying their own replica of the Black Nazarene (also in the mass).

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

We reached our vehicle and were able to extricate ourselves before the roads became impassable. Everybody hates traffic. Ang dami na ring taong naglalakad sa kalye papasok at palabas ng Quiapo. You can see faces in the state of despondency.  Having witnessed firsthand the unending sea of people, it’s not astonishing to hear in the news that there were 8.5 million who participated in the procession. Clearly, they hold on to their faith that Someone up there is the most powerful being who can make everything all right, and ease all the pain we are feeling.

This year, the procession went for 22 hours. Kung iisipin walang  tatagal ng ganoon, pamatay sa pagod. But, it happened. This tradition will not stop here. Hangga’t may nahihirapan o nasasaktan at higit sa lahat, may mga nagpapasalamat, ang pagdiriwang ng kapyestahan ng Poong Nazareno ay mananatili.

Image from my_sarisari_store.typepad.com

 At the end of the day, we are free to do what we believe, each should know where he stands. But whether or not one participates in such a procession, it wouldn’t change the fact that Filipinos are deeply religious. Just ask any Filipino who belongs to the biggest Catholic population in the world.

The quest for the perfect pandesal and the sacrifice for second best

Image from burninglove.i.ph

One of my favorite breakfast items, and I'm sure of a lot of you as well, is hot pandesal.  Though it comes in a lot of sizes and baking consistencies, how one wants his pandesal best  is a matter of personal preference.  Me, I want it not too crunchy on the outside, but very soft and a bit gummy on the inside.

My pandesal eating ritual starts by punching a hole into the side and using my thumb and index finger to dig out the soft inside, before depositing it into my waiting mouth.  And I would follow it up with a sip of coffee for good measure.

It is only when the pandesal is gutted of its inside do I pair it with any palaman that is available: cheese, egg, tuna, peanut butter, fruit jam, hotdog, and even condensed milk.  I was influenced by my wife to have something salty on the side, such as Mr Chips, Chippy and Tortillos, to balance off the tastes.  She takes her Pandesal with orange juice.

Another reason why I like pandesal for breakfast is that it is easy to prepare and clean after.  All it takes is a couple of small plates and a quick scan of what's inside the ref and breakfast is ready.  But lately, we are having pandesal less and less.  Not because we have grown tired of it, but because the two roving pandesal vendors have ceased to frequent our subdivision.

Their apparent disappearance started a few months ago when a neighbor, a family friend of ours, opened a new bakery.  And what is a bakery without hot pandesal, right?  Our neighbor is well liked in our community and so our small village, as a show of support, flocked to the bakery for our bread needs, me and my pandesal craving included.

But the new bakery's version of the pandesal, while a bit bigger, does not conform with my self-imposed specifications -- it is crunchy on the outside, and its core is dry and flaky like a croissant.   Plus, it does not heat well as a leftover bread, so unlike the pandesal delivered by one of  the ambulant vendors, which stays good even after two reheatings.

Though I have two regular roving suppliers, I like one better than the other  for several reasons.  First, and this is the most important -- his pandesal  aces all my criteria. Second, I get to know bits and pieces of his personal story; that he is from Samar but is married to a native of Lipa, or that the bakery that makes the bread that he sells is some 5 kilometers away from my place, and that where he lives is another 5 kilometers away going the opposite direction.  On a routine trip, he rides his bike -- a BMX rigged to hold a styropore bread box -- approximately 25 kilometers, and he does this twice, once in the morning, and another in the afternoon where he stakes another subdivision.

Monay, an alternative to pandesal

Which brings me to the third reason why I like him more.  He just seems more hardworking than  my other pandesal source, who sells his bread aboard his motorbike.  Not once did I hear him complain about how hard life is for someone of his kind.  I can sense his brimming pride for his work, which says a lot about the kind of man that he is.

Before the neighbor's bakery opened, and when I had the urge for pandesal, I would usually relax inside the house and wait for the pot-pot sound that heralds pandesal is coming.  When I am not in a hurry, I peek outside to see who is coming.  If it's the vendor on the motorbike, I don't come out and wait some more till my favored suki comes.

I did have a third option but it meant me literally sacrificing a leg.  Some 50 meters from our house is a store that also sells hot pandesal, on consignment from another village.  It is really just a short walk and the pandesal there is not half bad.  But halfway, I often encounter a black dog that, out of so many people that pass by, it's only me that he snarls and growls upon.  This dog has a personal grudge on me, and no one else. I don't understand why but I have a theory.

You see this dog looks really menacing, but also laughable.  His head and torso are that of a mean and powerful doberman, but his legs are short and stout like those of a daschund.  Perhaps, this dog's insecurity with his less than developed extremities has found a target in my long, lean legs.   I am, after all, an inch above six feet.

Images from 22dog.com and greatdogsite.com

So you can imagine the absurdity of our confrontations as I try to cross the dog's territory to get to the store: A tall, long legged man being threatened by a short but powerful, muscular dog.  I have seen too much of Cesar Millan's The Dog Whisperer to know that, when a dog bares his teeth and growls and moves forward, he means business -- or in my case, to take some inches off my ridiculously long legs.

I am just thankful that, although humans tend to covet what they don't have, or secretly eye another person's body part that he deems better than his, we don't normally resort to violence or malicious threats.  Imagine what kind of world we would have if the stout pummels the slim, or the short maims the tall, or the slow bashes the intelligent, or the curly-haired trims the straight-haired.  Insecurity plus envy, bad combination --resulting into chaos, major chaos because everyone is insecure, one way or another.

That damned dog has the habit of derailing me, first my trip to the store, then this story.  Now where were we?

When the neighbor's bakery opened, the two roving vendors' visits became noticeably less frequent.  But having been disappointed by the flaky pandesal, I would patiently wait for the familiar pot-pot sound so that I can source my preferred bread.  At times, they came, often they did not.  And that meant either settling for the pandesal/croissant or brave the threat of the insecure short-legged dog, or take the last option, which is to forego bread altogether.

The last time I saw my favorite vendor was also the last time I heard his pot-pot.  I was patiently waiting for him to pass, but almost 15 minutes have elapsed and still no sign of him or his pot-pot.  Not prepared to prolong my hunger, I decided to go to the bakery and settle for the pandesal/croissant.  But on my way back to the house with a small paper bag of bread in my hands, I heard a familiar sound coming my way -- it was my favorite vendor.  But when he was near me he simply breezed by without looking, nor asking if I wanted his pandesal, which he always did every time we chanced upon each other.  He did not even press his rubber horn to sound off pot-pot.  Instead, he just pedalled forward, head bowed and eyes steely focused in front of him.  I wanted him to stop, or look at me so that I could explain that I waited for him.  But he never did.  He simply pressed on. And that was the last time I saw him selling pandesal in our village.



POSTSCRIPT:  The neighbor's bakery has since stopped producing pandesal on weekdays, and instead offers them only on weekends.  Still, the roving vendors no longer came back.

5 Reasons Why I Bike Alone

This first appeared in my blog's original site.  I'll be reposting stories first published there once in a while.

Overlooking Taal Lake, Lipa City view

I find it mildly discomforting when neighbors, who are avid bikers like me, would chide me every time they, in their car or in some random errand would encounter me on the road on my bike, alone. “Tumira ka na naman mag-isa!” (So you went solo again!) or “Bakit ‘di mo naman ako dinaanan?” (Why didn’t you pass by my house so we could ride together?) are comments that I normally answer with a grin and some lame excuse like, “Akala ko kasi wala ka sa inyo, eh.” (I thought you were not at home.)

The truth is I enjoy biking alone and I can’t simply tell my neighbors why without sounding aloof or worse, disconnected. Here’s why I prefer to bike alone.

1. Me time
There are things that are better enjoyed shared, like a lively conversation between friends or a nice meal with a loved one, biking for me is not one of them. I’m a bit of an introvert but certainly not a recluse, so I’m a tad selfish when it comes to my me-time. Biking, for me, is like a good book that you read in some comfortable corner of your house or in some quiet coffee shop, you don’t need nor hope for company.

For some, like my wife for instance who I normally drop off in one mall and pick up in another, it’s like going around the shops not necessarily to ring the cash register but to browse unhurriedly and with no agenda in mind other than to pass away time. For others, like my wife again, it’s going to the Ukay-ukay (Thrift shop) and discovering cheap, yet seemingly priceless finds. In a hurried world, it’s the unexpected thrills that make me-times so wonderful and welcome. Everyone needs it, deserves it even.

So when I am on the road and people or other riders ask “Mag-isa ka lang?” (You’re riding alone?), with a tone that betrays mercy and concern for my solitude, I can only smile as if I’m in a happy place -- because I am.

2. Spontaneity
When I open the gate to our house and pedal the first 100 meters to the main street, I usually have 4 hours of me-time and options, not a plan, on how and where to spend it. I may turn right and hit the rough trail passing by farming communities or turn left to a military base where I would cross the airplane runway (prohibited, of course) before I hit the dirt trail around the base’s perimeter, or go straight further down till I hit the national highway and to the varied places and roads -- concrete, mud, dirt, rocks, or a combination of all -- that await me regardless if I turn left or right.

Though I may have passed any of these trails numerous times, it is the feeling of spontaneity that gives each ride such newness and, thus, anticipation. Riding with others takes away this impulsiveness as consensus must be had first before any option is taken, you can’t simply make an unexpected turn without considering others. The moment you stop and discuss what to do next is the moment you kill spontaneity. Which brings me to my next reason.

3. Wander and Wonder
The beauty of riding alone to nowhere in particular is that each trip serves as a blank page that I can fill with stories of unusual encounters or unexpected detours. Though I am not a person who gets surprised easily, I am one however who is a sucker for something out of the ordinary. Sometimes, I pass by little, seemingly unexplored trails simply because I am curious where it leads. Or at times, I stop by places that catch my interest or that of people local to the area. I also take note of interesting places that I, together with my wife, can visit in some future date. In fact, some of the most interesting places that we show house guests and friends, specially those from Manila or abroad, I discovered in one of my wanderings. Often, I simply keep my eyes and ears open as I fleetingly immerse myself in the daily goings on of ordinary people. If I’m lucky, I get to converse with people who are only too willing to share their stories.

These things you surely can’t do when you are with a bunch of sweaty guys, and occasionally girls, on a gaggle of bicycles attempting to blend with the local crowd.

4. Pressure-free, guilt-free ride
Riding in a group definitely offers plenty of advantages, and I wouldn’t mind being in such a group once in a while. But its biggest advantage is, for me, also its biggest disadvantage: You leave as a group and arrive as a group. Not everyone in a group is of the same riding physical or mental condition on any given trip. Sometimes you just feel too tired and aching for rest but you won’t because you know others would wait for you -- compromising the progress of the group. You don’t want to be the cause of such delay so you tend to push on and squeeze your body harder so you can keep up. On some days you feel that you can use a faster pace but realize that your speed should be within the bounds of the slowest rider in the group. To paraphrase that popular saying, a peloton is only as strong as its weakest biker. If you bike alone, you have no such worries as you are at tune with your body better and pedal at your own pace and rest at your discretion.

5. Work and commute
Work for most is a 2x2 meter cubicle, a table with a computer and paper and folders all around. As an entrepreneur and freelance copywriter, the road is an extension of my office. With pen and paper, plus a small digicam handily in my backpack I can use my time on the road to generate creative inspirations, or should I get lucky, stumble on stories that I can use either for my blog or my copywriting work. Being alone on the road, away from every one, makes it easier for me to get into that creative zone that has proven to become more difficult to locate when you are stationary in front of a computer.

I also use my bike to and from my place of business (I have a wall climbing facility inside a school), especially when I am not lugging around anything heavy or bulky. I get there quicker because I can weave around traffic, plus I get to save on gasoline -- about a liter a day, which when you multiply by the number of times I go there a week and I get significant savings on my fuel costs.


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