It’s all relative: 02 (Singapore)

 

I was active in sport throughout my school days.

    After only two years in London, I went back for a visit, and found myself unable to go out much.  Spent a lot of my time sitting under the ceiling fan, and even then, I still couldn’t stay awake.

    So how did I manage to be an athlete and a netball player for almost a dozen years?!?

    I was a sprinter, hurdler and long jumper.  For netball, I played the Centre position which covers all three sections of the court, while all the other players only cover two out of three.  A lot of training had to be put in, not just competing on the days of the races and matches.

    Yes, most of the time, we did have to wait until the sun was less fierce before starting our training round about 4pm, but it was still tearing around the field/court in the open outdoors.

    Yet, after just two years in London, my body had adapted so well to the British climate that I couldn’t even leave the house without feeling like a blob of jelly, or “a slab of butter left out in the sun” as an English ex-colleague used to say of his time in Xiamen (/Amoy) in Fujian province, S.E.China.

(Singapore, 1960s / 1979)

Being challenged to a car race (Singapore)

I’d passed my driving test at age 18, the minimum age for taking the test.  

My mother had, only a year or so earlier, swapped her Morris Minor for a Datsun 1200.  The “1200” was 1200cc here, I think.

Late one night, I was sitting at a set of traffic lights near Thompson Road, practically devoid of traffic at that hour, minding my own business, waiting for the lights to change, when I heard, to my right, a car being revved up repeatedly: vroom, vroom, vroom.  I turned round and saw the source of the noise: a car in the next lane, with its owner — a young man — looking at me in a raised eyebrows “well, how about it?” way, obviously challenging me to a car race.

Not being very much into cars, I couldn't tell what the make of the other car was, but as my Datsun was only a 1200, and from the confident challenge thrown at me by the other driver, I knew that my car wouldn’t be up to the level of the speed expected on the straight run, i.e., I'd be trounced hands down.

However, I knew my car well enough for a quick off-the-(starting-)blocks head start for the first three gears, as I could change gears very quickly, with immediate response from the car.

My training and experience as an athlete — from age eight to 18 — had taught me that one has to start running at the same time that the starter gun is fired, not after one hears it, as this will be a split second too late.  

Every split second counts in a 100-metre sprint.  When the starter says “Get set” (after “On your marks”), you start counting to three — that’s the time gap between “get set” and the firing of the gun.  At the count of three, you kick off.  The reason for false starts by athletes is they’ve gone too fast on counting to three, thus pre-empting the gun and getting off the blocks a little too soon.

Being the nerd that I am, I had also observed the timing of traffic lights when changing from one colour to another:  there was a 3-second gap between amber and green.

After my first glance at the young man, I turned my head back to focus on the road ahead, giving him the impression that I wasn’t going to bite, thus throwing him off the scent.

The lights went to amber.  

I started counting to three, and shot off the very moment the lights turned green, leaving the young man behind.  

A few yards on, a quick change to second gear.  

Another stretch of road later, a quick change of gear to third.  

Once I’d changed to fourth gear, I eased the pressure on the accelerator pedal and let the car cruise, as my Datsun wouldn’t be able to sustain much speed at fourth gear.

To add insult to injury, I stuck my hand out of the window, and slowly waved the young man on.

(Singapore, 1973)