I accidentally went out and partied last night. Why do I behave like a twenty one year old sometimes? Why?
You supposed to have a glass. Not half a bottle.
The broomwagon is coming over at noon and then drive straight to KKangsar. I am nursing a hangover. To the people I text messaged last night, I apologised.
To end with a positive note, yesterday I did Friday prayers. I didn’t make any mistake and didn’t look like a fool. Lightning did not strike me. Horns didn't come out from my head as predicted by Q. Yes, baby steps forward. Baby steps.
This weekend is the big one. It’s the Grand Prix Racespeda – Malay College Kuala Kangsar 100th Anniversary Race. It’s a 100km of paddy fields, durian orchards, cheering village kids & water buffaloes. The bike shop is noisy like a fish market leading to the weekend. Friends winding each other up, taunting, making bets and declarations of not feeling well. It is not uncommon for cyclists to walk into the bike shop holding a bottle of cough syrup or antibiotics, claiming they have the flu. This is to ward off possible attacks on them during the ride or an excuse if they get beaten. Cycling is a chivalrous sport but trust Malaysians to abuse it.
Bragging rights until the next race in October is priceless.
***
My favourite moment is at dawn on race day. It is dark, quiet and serene. Nobody talks very much. Everyone go about their business of getting ready. Absent are the loud banters. Its funny, somehow the body knows that it will suffer for 3 hours. It knows it will be under 90%-100% max heart rate during the whole duration. It tells the mouth that it wants peace and quiet.
It is so easy to redline and breakdown. As long as I finish ahead of Nizar the tri-athlete I am happy. Oh yeah, and ahead of the other protagonists in the “lembu” division. That would make my trip to KKangsar a success.
I am looking forward to the dinner gala the night before. The cute young Malaysian singing sensation, Misha Omar will be performing. I hope my rivals overeat. I’d tell Misha not to worry as all the MCKKOBAs are closet bum bandits.
***
Okay I have come up with a checklist of stuff for me to pack.
1. My beloved racing wheels – Cosmic Carbone SSL. Yeah baby, if its good enough for Alesandro Pettachi, its good enough for me. 2. Vittoria Corsa CX tires or the Continental GP Attackforce . Tough one this.. 3. Team jersey – top, bibs and gloves 4. Team issue Oakleys Racing Jacket 5. Should I wear the Lance Giro Pneumo or the Met Stradivarius helmet. Hmm..whatever more aero? 6. Should I go for my DMT Ultimax or the Nike Poggio. Hmm..whatever more aero? 7. 2 pairs of socks 8. Suunto heart rate monitor 9. Nike heart rate monitor (spare) 10. 3 x PowerGels banana flavour 11. 2 x PowerBar vanilla flavour 12. ISIS isotonic rehydration energy drink 13. 4 x Panadol Ultra (to numb the pain) 14. 2 x Ephedrine pills (whatever it takes!) 15. Ventolin inhaler (its ban in Tour de France, but this is Malaysia. Anything goes) 16. Ultra strong black coffee in a flask 17. After sun soothing gel 18. 2-way radio, charger, handsfree kit
Okay I am ready for war.
Note to Zafry: Revenge. How dare you do a Cunego on me? The script states that I am stronger and faster than you and would always finish ahead of you. I am from the higher cyclist caste. You do not smoke me. Not ever! Not even on training rides. We will follow team orders until the last 10km. After that, I’m going to “penggal” your kepala baby!
Note to self I: Don’t even dare forget your RHCP’s Californication CD.
Note to self II: Pretend the radio not working if Directuer Sportif shout ball busting instructions. Please practice “me no comprende, me no comprende” face and hand gestures in front of the mirror tonight.
In the café last night I meet with Siva, my old college mate in England. There were five of us Malaysians in the college. We were all very different from each other but we got on really well. We called each other Tan Sri and Datuk much to the amazement of the handful of Singaporeans there.
Siva and I talk, he ask me if I missed England. And I answered, not really. I missed some of the things but not terribly enough for me to say I miss England.
He asks in a matter of fact, what were my memories of England. Just like Nick Hornsby main character in Hi-Fidelity, he wanted to know the top 5. Without giving much thought, my memories of England are:
1. [b]Hunger. [/b]I was always hungry. I was always short of money and food. Towards the end of every term to avoid starvation, my mates and I cooked beans. Curry beans. Dahl. Beans in tomato sauce. Beans with fried rice. Beans with eggs. Beans, beans, beans.
2. [b]The local pubs & student bar. [/b]Well this is where the majority of funds were channelled too. A pint cost a quid at the bar.
3. [b]The Chip shop. [/b]Yes, chips with lots of vinegar and salt. On a good day, we’d have Doner Kebab to go with it.
4. [b]Happy Shopper Coffee. [/b]The nastiest coffee you will ever taste in your whole life. We nicknamed it Sawdust & Nails.
E.g., Me: I am making a cup of Sawdust & Nails. Would u like one? Andrea: Cheers mate. Milk, no sugar please. Me: I know you are sweet as you are and all but this is Sawdust & Nails. You sure? Andrea: Oh. Uh... make it two teaspoon of sugar please.
5. [b]Summer parties & barbecues. [/b]Kicking it with sangria, eastern European wine and 0.33litre Johnny Walker courtesy of Malaysian airlines. Dodgy Macarena music… what European au pairs want European au pairs get. Dancing. Flirting. Courting. Failing. Scoring. Love. Betrayal. Heartbreak.
If there were a 6, it would be the time my then girlfriend caught me watching Nav Dogg 70’s porn. I learned all the French swear words that afternoon.
[i]Note to self: what about you working illegally in dodgy video shop for 3 years for 3 quid an hour?
Note to self II: I suppose that would make number 7. Happy now?[/i]
I just came back from lunch with an old fling. Leaving the country also has its little perks. One of them is you get free meals. And sometimes from people who usually do not even buy you a drink though I am not referring to her.
I wonder if she’d sleep with me before my departure. You know, one for the road. I wish.
I wonder what she sees in that old bloke. For some, it’s the feel good factor. The thought that you are as good as it gets for him does feed your ego.
We talk about surprise, surprise relationship. Second conversation in less than a week. Do I have “lonely bastard” written on my forehead? Everyone I meet wants to talk about relationship with me. I guess I had to work for my meal so I gave her my two cents.
Logic part of her brains is telling her to leave him. The relationship is not going anywhere. There are too many differences from social, cultural to religion. Her biological clock is ticking away and she wants her 2.5 kids. He is making it hard for her by consistently treating her well and the best he can. For some, effort goes a long way.
“I know I have to make a decision soon. I can’t drag this any longer. If I do leave him I would like to be with a Malay man. It’s for religion sake. I like my man spiritual.”
Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the salmon steak but I actually put on my thinking cap during our conversation. Here is a person whom I regard as one of the most complete person I know. She is super intelligent, highly spiritual, principled, kind and genuine. She is almost perfect. I see men, able men, reduced to weak little puppies for her. She has this aura I just cannot articulate. Seeing her feeling a bit lost is quite touching. Humbling even.
“Apparently, I am no successful case study when it comes to relationship. So take what I am about to say with a pinch of salt. I think it’s all about connection”.
[i]Note to self: Connection? WTF? How many drinks have you had earlier? What have you been smoking?[/i]
I can’t help but to look at the little mole on her cleavage while talking to her. This does not help my credibility as her advisor. Sometimes I can be a goddamn weakling. Argh!
“It’s all about connecting with the person. Many times in a relationship I have felt alone even though we compliment each other a lot. And communication and sex was great. But there are only a few girls I have been with whom I felt a connection”.
CP who dominates my earlier blog is one of them. But I am over her. Really. I swear.
“Connection is more than chemistry and compatibility. It’s a special feeling. It’s wanting to be with her through her bad times. It’s wanting to reveal to her your inner most fears. It is something you don’t feel you need to, but want to. And a lot more”.
Preacher Man is on a roll. Its like I found the right cadence, gearing and power wattage, pedalling like a ballerina up a mountain.
“If you don’t feel this way towards him, I think you should move on. And when you start meeting people, see the person not as Malay or Chinese or Indian but simply a person. Stop assessing his spiritual capacity and other variable factors. The constant thing in life is change. People change. Sometimes change for the better. Its all about having heart”.
I actually made sense to her, a Mensa member and Corporate woman. She thanked me.
On the way back to my car, I gave myself a pat on the back. Imitating Robert de Niro in the movie Analyze That… You, you are good. No, no, no. You are really good.
PEST ... if i can recall my economics class way back in the 80s.
[b]Politics:[/b] Err… I am a republican. I don’t believe in the monarchy. I think Badawi wears his pants a bit too high. I think people should give his son-in-law a chance. I think people join Promuda to get laid.
[b]Religion:[/b] I’ve got plans to go for afternoon prayers tomorrow. Now, how do I recite the mandi wajib? Heh.. just kidding, just kidding.
[b]Women:[/b] I had drinks two nights ago with two lady friends of mine. We were talking (rather they were talking and I was listening) about Malay men. They are totally disillusioned in Malay men. Everyone I meet nowadays is cynical. Typical grievances about 30 something and above Malay men are: chauvinistic, rude, unromantic, dull, overweight and shabbily dressed. It’s the case of two extremes. At one end you have the old school Malay men with old school ideas of women’s role in the scheme of things and the other is the metrosexual (?) modern Malay men who are only in love with themselves and too vain for their liking. They are planning to holiday in Europe to check out European men. Best of luck senoritas. I was not slighted listening to them condemn my own kind. Perhaps its because we are good friends or maybe (the last time I check) the ratio of men to women in KL is 1:3.5 and growing.
[b]Cycling:[/b] Lance Armstrong is on his way to win his record breaking 6th consecutive Tour de France after winning the L’Alpe D’Huez uphill time trial. He is so, so strong this year. He demolished my 2nd idola Jan Ullrich(my 1st idola Marco Pantani died from depression) in the Pyrenees. To show my respect, I am going to wear my 04’ US Postal jersey and Lance Oakley’s and special edition helmet and ride up Bukit Kiara and Bukit Damansara later this afternoon.
[b]Car:[/b] With my impending relocation to Jakarta in the coming months, attempts have been made to sell my car. The current market value of the car will further impoverish the already poor owner.
I might have to ride a bicycle to commute in and around Jakarta. You know the old adage, "be careful what you wish for, you might get".
Theroadie life’s lesson #503, do not buy Italian cars unless you want to use it for eternity or you have loads of disposable income.
[b]Accommodation in Jakarta:[/b] The replies I received from housing agents in Jakarta are also quite shocking. A studio apartment in central Jakarta cost USD1,500. That is at least 30% more expensive than in KL. I was told that Malaysian men are popular with Jakarta ladies but I guess that does not apply for Malaysian men living 2 hours away from central Jakarta. Hmm.. maybe my maid has got a spare room over there.
[b]Saturday[/b] Spent the afternoon driving to Kuala Kangsar for a Sunday morning ride. That and the fact that I have to share a chalet with 15 other cyclists (as there is no more accommodation) and in terrible physical shape prove that I am still in love with this sport.
Club president called me a fat over weight zebra from the zoo. Threatened to demote me to a soignier (the unfortunate bloke who drives the broomwagon and hand cyclist drink bottles). Everyone was laughing away at my expense. I didn’t know whether El Presidente was serious or joking. There is a thin line that separates it in this cycling club.
Manoeuvred my way onto the only bed in the chalet but later to my horror my teammate joined me on the double bed. I slept right on the edge. His shaven legs against my hairy legs, not a good idea. Could hardly sleep with 15 snoring old farts around.
[b]Sunday[/b] Sold my soul to the devil to hang on to the orange & blue* train. I was determined to prove a point to El Presidente. Suffered like a dog as the train was riding at lung busting warp speed. Used all the dirty tricks in the book to hang on which I wont elaborate here.
I was thinking to break down and cry when I saw the Sultan Azlan Shah bridge that marks the finish line from afar. The train broke in two towards the finish and I miraculously managed to be in the first group.
I think the endorphin I released from that ride can make a dozen people high. The ride hurt. El Presidente told me that I could keep my jersey for now. He said that I am still fat and need to lose my happy hour fat.
If they demote me, I am going to call up their wives and tell them that the bicycle did not cost RM800 but a down payment for an SUV. Most of them have more than one bicycle that they hide in their office. I am not afraid to rat I tell ya!
*The only cycling club to have customized jersey from Italy, communication using hands free radio… they are an elitist snooty lot.
As many would know, I fancy myself as an amateur road racer. Not the recreational cyclist you see on the road riding LeRun mountain bikes with horrendously mismatched outfit but the sort with professional replica everything, shaved legs et al.
Life as an amateur road racer is tough. Miles upon miles spent on the bike to stay in condition. Many made a lot of effort making sure they have the right diet. Everything revolves around cycling. Work comes second, and family comes third. If you are single like me, you have to make lots of social sacrifices. A night out on Friday usually ends by 12 with very little alcohol. If its not a working Saturday, you ride 80km. Saturday afternoon is usually at the bike shop, making man and machine to be in tip top condition for the Sunday ride.
Sunday is when it all happens. You ride in big groups, you go long distance and you race with your fellow mates. Lots of ego and pride is elevated or destroyed on that day of the week.
Last Sunday, the ride was from KLIA-Port Dickson-KLIA. 130km ride on the coastal road, starting from the old swampland. It was extremely hot riding on this route and the average speed was 33km/h. After 80km/h, Mr. I-fancy-myself-to-be-a-cy clist bailed out. You would only bailout because of mechanical problem. You do not bail out if you are knackered! That kind of bail out is akin to a samurai surrendering without a fight.
I have never done that in my cyclist life. Last Sunday was the first. That ride broke me. I couldn’t keep up with the peloton with their 35km/h tempo. My heart rate redlined to 170 bpm. I was slobbering all over the handlebar. I looked like I had seen a ghost. It was not a pretty sight. In the past I was known for my mental aptitude, you know the ability to dig in when the going gets tough, but last Sunday I was like a big baby. I broke down and had to be picked up by the broomwagon (a cycling term for support vehicle).
What happen to the old 65kg Rookie of The Year who rode in the same peloton with the who’s who of amateur racing, who attacked towards the end when the road pointed up to the heavens, who finished 140th in the Genting Challenge 2003 (the first hundred were the state, MSN, national riders)… okay okay I was 153th.
Now I am just a drunk, washed up, overweight road racer wannabe… boo hoo hoo…
I want to make a come back. I am throwing out my Dunhill Lights, Dunkin Donuts and quitting alcohol. If Lance Armstrong can do it, so can Theroadie.
I woke up this morning feeling lost. For a few minutes, I was trying to reboot my hard drive in my brains and recall the events that happen before I went to bed.
Slowly it came to me in instalments. Starting from the time I arrived at The Club. It’s Mrs. Smug Married birthday. There were lots of people. Beautiful people. Half empty bottle of Chivas and another one on its way. The bottle did not stop coming, replacing the empty ones. Somebody is spending away his monthly mortgage tonight I thought.
Everyone was having fun, laughing and chatting. The laughter got louder and louder as time passes by. The signs were there. I chatted with the person next to me like he is my best friend. We exchanged pledges to get together for business or golf, and I do neither by the way. I flirted with a female friend who was just as intoxicated as me. Our friends were observing us. I received a few “you are an unscrupulous male slut” looks. I felt her lips on my neck. I now wonder if I had mine on hers.
The natural progression was for me to go back to her place. Two people physically attracted to each other wanting the same thing. Perfectly normal and nothing wrong with that I thought. More drinks were poured and endless toast for something or the other and the dreaded words, “bottoms up”. The rest was all a blur.
Okay with the rebooting process completed, I then checked my text message inbox and outbox. We didn’t do anything. Judging by the text messages, we almost did. We both went home separately.
I lie in bed for a good hour thinking about this. What if I did went home with her? We would have had a very pleasurable time. We would have been in a different world only for the night. A world where we are lovers. We would call each other “sayang” and “sweetheart”. We would hug and cuddle each other to sleep. When the sun rise, its back to the real world.
Would this be a beginning of an affair? A fling? Would we avoid each other like a plague? Would it ruin a friendship built over a decade? Would it take it to another level? Would the friendship remain the same? It is possible. After all we are both adults.
We were too inebriated and we were not ourselves. We would have regretted it the next day. I wonder if she is feeling the same way. I wonder if she has that sort of attraction towards me if she is sober.
While an invisible little dwarf continuously pound my head with a mallet, I wonder what made me decline. Is it fear? Respect? Maturity? Or all three combined?
I recently stumbled upon Mindriot’s blogsite and his life travelling logs brought back old memories. It reminded me of my old self. Before city living and the rat race consumed me. I actually forgot about the old me until I read Mindriot’s blogs. The old me loved to be on the move, see and experience different cultures and places. The old me worked behind the counter at the video shop to pay the local bar tab and to travel. The old me wore worn out 501s and Cat boots 24/7 though the fashion at the time was Versace and Moschino.
The old me did not give a shit about what others think or society’s norm. I once attended a posh Malaysian party in London and came with my 18-year-old Mini to the dismay of the BM and Merc driving upper class guests. I even had the cheek to flirt with one their girlfriend’s at the party. I did not feel inferior, not even for a second. Today I wipe the arse of some CEOs and Datuks thinking that they are gods.
Life was simpler back then. Back when I was studying in a little village in Germany, I would go the train station every so often just to look at the train tracks. I told myself this train track represent freedom and unlimited possibilities. I could go all the way to Russia or maybe even as far as China. I stayed in Greece for a month just because I liked the place and the people. I can’t be spontaneous now as I am a slave to RHB Bank, Mayban Finance, Visa and Mastercard (oh yeah and my local bicycle shop, got Buku 555 there).
I have stayed in beaches of Goa, drank “fenni” which can also be a makeshift fuel for Marathi’s and slept in a 500-year-old Portuguese fort. I walked across to the Nepalese border in complete darkness just to save USD180 (most backpackers fly to Kathmandu via Delhi). I honestly thought I was gonna get raped and killed by the drunk truck drivers there. I cannot explain the feeling when one really feel like he is gonna die. I made promises to god then which I have yet to deliver. I went across into China ignoring typhoon level 3 warning and risked getting killed by flying debris back when visa to china was USD$120. Now I go on package holiday and make sure that accommodation is a minimum 4 star hotel (in developing countries only, in Europe B&B will do...). I fuss when the hotel does not have overnight laundry service.
I get stressed out at not meeting numbers, wrong forecast, slow collection, market sentiments, what competitors are doing just to able sit in the car that is a foot longer and wee bit faster; stay in a house that has another floor and eat at places where the real difference is only its presentation. How trivial and silly people live their lives slogging for that extra inch.
When I am not working, I search for the right companion and that elusive eternal love more intense than Goggle only to fail countless times. I cycle 200km a week thinking I am a grande cyclist but deep down I know I am not gifted physically. Cycling is a passion that used to be an obsession. Okay, okay this self-absorbing crap is too much even for myself….
I guess life is like swimming in the Sungai Perak river. You sometimes don’t realise how strong the current is and how far it has taken you away from your intended destination.
[i] Disclaimer: Sorry lah, this is the only medium where I can be self-absorbing and please only myself. I swear I am not like this in real life. [/i]
[b]Tour de France[/b]: the three most famous words in cycling.
· The Holy Grail, · The mother-of-all races, · A maker of heroes, · A destroyer of men, · A spectacle of the grandest order.
For the three weeks in July when the Tour is circumnavigating France, each of the riders in the peloton carries with them the [b]soul of cycling[/b].
A trip to France to see the Tour is like a trip to [b]Mecca[/b] - for the faithful it is a [b]pilgrimage[/b], a renewal, almost a religious obligation, something that must be witnessed in person at least once in a lifetime.
Okay okay I didn’t write the stuff above and I forgot where I got it. I am unscrupulous like that. <- even that has whiff of [url>=http://www.woodyloh.blogspot....]Woody Loh[/url] .
We Malaysians will only be able to watch daily highlights of Le Tour on ESPN for 30 minutes. The 30 minutes is enough for people to arrange fictitious meetings with fictitious clients the other side of town, appointment with the doctor, Lembaga Hasil Dalam Negeri (Income Tax), wife in labour et cetera et cetera. People tell this tales are from all walks of life from clerks to CEOs.
Everyone will congregate at their local bike shop. For 3 weeks the bike shop will have TV and satellite dish. The bike shop will make free drinks and finger food available. Once you step into the bike shop you leave outside your social standing in life and you are just a cyclist. Here the stronger cyclists, who might be just a taxi driver, are treated with higher esteem than the weaker ones. The bike shop owner’s quiet office is given access to anyone who need to answer calls from their wife, client or boss.
Starting this Saturday and for three weeks you would see cyclists on the road cycling with a bit more purpose than usual. They fantasize they are Lance, Jan or Alessandro riding tempo in the peloton. During this time, the Sunday rides become a bit overzealous. The rides are longer and tougher. When Le Tour hit the Alps or Pyrenees, the local ride will emulate the pros by doing Camerons or Genting. Last year, stirred by the fierce rivalry between Lance and Jan in the Pyrenees, the local did a suicidal 200km loop around Frasers-Tranum-Bentong resulting in many casualties and those surviving the ride looking like extras from the movie, Bridge over River Kwai.
Money, love, sex (how to do the strikethrough effect?), relationship, Malay men and airline crew bashing carries no importance in this three weeks. What is important is who will attack on the flats, in the mountains, who will crash, who will bonk out in the climbs and who will wear the maillot jaune (yellow jersey).
[i]Bike racing is a metaphor for life. But actually, it's a metaphor on a speed-ball. The highs are higher, the lows lower. There is ultimate truth, and there can be ultimate consequences. And that's why we love it. If only the rest of life was like that - Uknown[/i]
Terminology:
Bonking - A rider who has completely run out of glycogen, the carbohydrate that fuels the muscles, is said to have bonked.
Peloton - This French word simply means 'group'. It's also perhaps the most frequently misspelled piece of cycling jargon there is. 'Peleton' is not an alternative English spelling of the word, it's simply a flag that the writer is missing a clue.
Tempo - 'Riding tempo' means setting the pace for the peloton or for another rider, usually at a high but not excessive level.
Yellow Jersey -The overall leader on general classification (GC). GC is the sum of each day's finish times, less any time bonuses the rider might earn for a stage win or place. The yellow jersey of race leader therefore goes to the rider with the lowest total time for the race.
[i]Commentators are Phil Liggert and Paul Sherwen (Tour de France fame)[/i]
[i]Phil: In the right corner, looking his best emotional condition in years is Theroadie. He is tip top. He looks like he is ready for this bout. 100% focus. And in the left corner is CP, looking rather disinterested and unprepared.
Paul: I’m afraid the difference between these two fighters is evidently clear. David versus Goliath this. I hope Theroadie go easy on CP. Have a heart mate. Have a heart.
Phil: Theroadie jumps and up and down and around; throwing some impressive air jabs. CP is just standing there occasionally flicking her hair.
Paul: Theroadie is moving around like Ali. Awesome show of leg movement and punches. He looks to be like in devastating form. Cyclists rocks. And he has an extra hand in the form of the huge partisan crowd support in this Arena.
Phil: We are about to start the fight as the theme song Fuck It (I don’t want you back) by Eamon about to end. The crowd is going wild with anticipation.[/i]
[b]* DING DONG *[/b]
[i]Phil: And there goes the bell for Rou…..[/i]
[b]* BIFF *[/b]
[i]Phil: Oh my god, this is.. this is… theroadie is down. Theroadie is down. His nose look bloodied. He is not moving, he lay motionless. Ladies and gentlemen, theroadie has been KOed by a single blow to the nose. The punch was delivered lazily by CP who looked uninterested, bored even. One single punch of the match and it is all over. Where are you going Paul?
Paul: Fuck it. Bloody disgrace this is. I am off to the chip shop.[/i]
_________________________ __________________
She took ALL my DVDs including the bootleg Kill Bill Volume 1 and left. She even took some of Mr. Smugmarried DVD 9s he borrowed me. Thank god she only listens to Michael Jackson and Cher, my music CDs are safe. My Tupac and Red Hot Chilli Pepper CDs are with me.
Why didn’t I go for the house wine instead of the Chateau I-cant-pronounce 99’? I settled the bill with my credit card, which the bartender had to swipe about 7 times. And I was ready to leg it if that didn’t go through.
Note to self: Aaaah fuck it. I admit I am a sentimental old softie. So what? Its only fake DVDs. Back to the drawing board….
Note to self II: But now she is cuddling her beau watching YOUR DVDs and you KNOW what is gonna happen AFTER the show ends? SUCKER!!!
Note to self III: Oooiii.. who’s side are you on? Enough already.
Email me: pinkroadie@hotmail.com Theroadie is a 32 year old single again (and again) from Kuala Lumpur. He does not care anymore if there is no meaningful relationship in the horizon. He just wants to lose his beer gut and regain his old form and dance up the Momma Hor's Categorie that is Genting. The ole devil called Happy Hour proves to be a worthy adversary.
Theroadie is a 32 year old single again (and again) from Kuala Lumpur. He does not care anymore if there is no meaningful relationship in the horizon. He just wants to lose his beer gut and regain his old form and dance up the Momma Hor's Categorie that is Genting. The ole devil called Happy Hour proves to be a worthy adversary.