We all know cycling is about suffering, but this was beyond the perverse. The mid-day tropical sun drew every last drop of my sweet. My eyes burned as another droplet of saline sunscreen trickled in like some kind of Chinese water torture. No this was more like American water-boarding – how much fluid can one man’s skull seep?
If only I could reach my water bottle; no way, I had to maintain the intensity. I screeched in agony. One leg muscle after the other was cramping – first my quads, now my calves. But it was my inside thigh which was in a visible spasm. I had never experienced pain like this. From a broken pathetic little voice, I heard the words “I’m not sure I can do this”. My friend offered consoling words and encouragement. “It’s not far now. You can see the finish.
Relax. Concentrate on your breathing. Take it easy; there’s no hurry.” I could see my destination, but the pain; it was everywhere. And now the waves of nausea surged. The pathetic little voice interjected again, “I’m going to vomit”. But then even my spew failed to rise – energy had been diverted elsewhere. I stopped and reflected, “Cycling is a metaphor for life. The suffering we experience does raise our tolerance for the struggles we encounter day to day. And it can make us more empathetic with those who suffer more. It may even make us better people.”
I thought of the child crying in pain that I had seen in the hospital, and the old withered man lying next to me – or was he a premonition. And I thought of all those people living in abject poverty between the hospital and my friend’s place, and in parts of Timor I had yet to see. I thought of the memorials we had visited the day before – the memorials of the dead and the tortured during the years of Indonesian occupation and the civil war that followed. I thought of the hospitality of these incredibly tough Timorese and their ability to smile despite a generation of continuous suffering.
Yes, the suffering of cycling is a good metaphor for life, but like all figures of speech, we need to keep our suffering in perspective. After another three steps, my suffering subsided. I collapsed onto my friend’s couch. My Tour of Timor had finished at the 10 km mark three hours previously. My fractured pelvis will heal, but I hope I remember the lessons of the final 15 metre stage from car to couch, and the truths I reflected upon in the shadow of my comparative insignificant pain.
For all those who had the eyes, the Tour of Timor was a truly edifying event.

Michael Carr