Stay Home Sweet Home

You've been served.

Two weeks.

No human interaction, no stepping out of your premises, no nonsense.

If I don't obey this Stay Home Notice, I'll likely be thrown in jail.

Between six months' imprisonment and two weeks at home, the choice is obvious.

Yet, staying indoors with zero face-time with fellow humans is unbearable.

All my life, my adult life, I had been active.

Socially active.

Physically active.

And right now, I'm mentally active.

Too active, in fact.

I'm thinking way too much for my own good I think I am on the verge of a mental breakdown.

How will I ever survive 14 days confined to four walls?

Okay, it's 10 walls to be exact.

I was so bored I actually counted the number of walls in my apartment.

For the next 14 days, I would be holed up and cut off from interaction with the outside world.

Even Food Panda guys were to leave all my purchases outside the door.

For their own good, it's best they treated me as if I had leprosy.

I'm not complaining.

At least, I get to shout "thank you" to an actual human being.

That beats having a conversation with my tissue box earlier today.

By Day Two, I was imagining how the outside world would progress while I spent my time indoors.

When I eventually stepped out, would there be zombies?

Of course, I shouldn't be complaining.

I'm not alone.

In fact, from today, hordes of visitors flying in to Singapore -- whether they're locals or foreigners -- will have to serve a mandatory two-week stay home notice.

All these are part of efforts of the authorities to contain COVID19, a virus that's spreading way faster than any leaked sex video.

I take heart that I'm able to play a part in this.

For those who're newly flying into Singapore, here's what to expect.

• Before you get out of Changi Airport, you'll have to fill in a form, complete with your personal and flight details
• Thereafter, if you show no signs of COVID19, you'll be able to take a cab home
• Wind down the window en route to your home, breathe in the warm air -- that would be the last time you'd be seeing the outside world for a while
• Once you reach home, you'll have to say indoors for the next two weeks 
• Soon, someone from ICA will ring you -- just to ensure you're at home
• And then, you'll receive SMS-es from ICA with links
• Do note that it will look really dubious: The sender, though marked "ICA" will raise all sorts of suspicion because it will appear as "ICA.ID.GOV.SG/dubious random numbers
• It will also come in Mandarin -- even the English version of instructions comes across as broken
• When I first received it, I refused to click on it -- I made at least 5 calls to various departments who eventually confirmed they are legitamte 
• A day later, ICA sent out a notice saying that there've been a lot of queries about the legitimacy of its SMSes... and that they are legit
• Once I got that sorted out, I clicked on the link every time ICA sent me a message to ascertain my location (I soon learnt to appreciate it because a) it was an assurance the authorities are taking this Stay Home Notice seriously and b) I felt like someone was visiting me in prison and I took heart in those one-sided interactions

During your two-week SHN, you can order Food Panda. 

You can have your family members live with you.

You can do whatever you want -- as long  as you don't leave your home.

It can be extremely boring, I warn you.

For a former marathoner and triathlete who, up until recently have been running, swimming, cycling on a daily basis, staying indoors is a torture.

My daily average step count has been a grand total of 200. 

But there are simple joys to be found in my confinement period.

I didn't need to shave (so far, my bosses haven't called on me to appear on air via skype -- but when I do, I'll wear a suit on top, and just my Myanmar longyi -- or sarong -- below).

I also only needed to shower once a day. Nobody is going to sniff my armpits. 

There's no ironing for me to do since I won't be heading out any time soon.

And though I'm working from home, I am free to be creative: I can choose to sit in bed, on the couch, beside the fridge, under the table, beside the window, on the toilet bowl, or lie flat on my belly on the prickly living room carpet while I typed furiously on my office issued laptop.

And in the midst of this SHN, I have come to feel the love of friends and family.

I have received at least two gift baskets (I never knew I loved packages that much) -- one from a dear, dear friend, and one from family.

And I've had endless offers from close friends offering to risk their lives, buy me groceries and send them over to me.

I am indeed heartened.

As I write this, I'm into Day Three of my SHN.

I'm still holding up.

I may have begun talking out loud to myself today, but I figure I have the mental capacity to get through this.

I imagine that by Day Six, I may have to fight off the urge to have an intellectual debate on geopolitics with my coffee table.

By Day Nine, I may look at the living room carpet and think it might be a good idea to eat the colourful bits for lunch.

But I shall be strong.

The last thing I want is for the authorities to force open my door on Day 18, eventually worried about all the missed calls made to me. 

My greatest fear is that they'd find the walls being scratched with my fingernails. 

And...under the dining table... I'm very scared that they might find a poor Food Panda delivery guy who'd been forcefully dragged indoors on Day 13, knocked unconscious, his corpse half eaten. 

And then, the authorities might find me sitting alone in a corner, my arms protectively wrapping around my knees as I cradle back and forth, humming creepily to myself.

No. 

That won't -- and can't -- happen.

This is merely a two-week Stay Home Notice.

It's the least I can do.

The nation is fighting COVID19 and I should be proud I'm doing what I can.

I will not give up.

And  I will -- 

-- wait a minute. 

I think I hear the Food Panda guy ringing the doorbell and from the sounds of it, he seems to make a delicious meal....

Leong Wai Kit -- who is back in Singapore from Myanmar -- is still sane at time of writing this blog piece

Mother Theresa

My godma, Theresa Thomas, died on August 16 at the age of 88.

I name this blog post Mother Theresa because I really cannot resist the pun.

Not because I have the ability to elevate her - or anyone - to sainthood.

Or that I'm suggesting amma is a saint. 

Oh, no, no.

Though she is a God fearing, prayerful Catholic woman when she was alive, my amma - like most mortals - is no saint.

Especially not if you had seen her while she was warded at SGH, months before her passing.

While in her hospital bed, she would once in a while use words no saints should ever use in their lifetime.

Pundek, Pundek, Pundek! she would shout with gusto for no good reason, much to my amusement.

Pundek, is of course, a Tamil swear word that refers to a woman's genitals.

It would also henceforth be my favourite swear word.

In July this year, amma's health took a turn for the worst and had to be warded for nearly three weeks.

Because of her age, she had been in and out of hospital for various conditions in the past few years.

But when I visited her on July 10, she was starkly different.

She had slipped into episodes of delirium, not knowing who's who and unable to open her eyes.

She would lie in bed and make low, guttral noises, a scene I last remember in demonic movies, I would joke with my friends as my way of coping.

It was the first time I had seen the full extent of amma's age and what growing old could really do to people you love.

I knew time was running out.

Not just for her, but also for me.

Back then, I was booked on a one-way ticket to Myanmar.

I was slated to fly on July 28 to start a long-term posting there (or here, given that I'm writing this in Yangon).

And I knew that, due to my unique visa situation, I would likely have to stay in Myanmar continuously for 70 days while I sorted out my long-term stay arrangements there (or here).

And so, I started planning Project Live Funeral.

For the next week while she was warded - and the two weeks after she was discharged - I went to see amma almost every day, reminding myself that those might be my last few moments with her.

Project Live Funeral is a concept I borrowed from Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie. 

Like an actual wake, I would say my goodbyes to amma, hold her hand, thank her for loving me as a kid right till I am a grown up, and tell her how much I loved her.

Unlike an actual wake though, she could hear me (by the time she was discharged, amma was lucid but still weak).

Unlike an actual wake, I could touch her and feel her warm but wrinkly hand squeeze mine.

Unlike an actual wake, she could respond to me when I asked "do you know who I am? Do you know I love you?"

But my daily visits to her did feel like a wake.

Her "body" would be in her room (she was bedridden by then and could only lie comfortably on a reclined chair).

And in the living room were her equally old sisters - who each lovingly regards me as her nephew - sitting around, chatting, snacking, laughing away.

On July 27, the day before I flew off, I designated that day as the funeral day.

It was also the day when I said my final thank-yous, goodbyes, touched and kissed amma for as long as I could.

Time flew in Myanmar - but I was constantly in touch with my god-siblings, including the helper Than Than, who is God sent.

On the day amma died, I was preparing to go to work in Yangon.

I was drying my hair, preparing to wear my shirt and pants, and mentally preparing myself for a list of things to do in the office (it was a big news day in Myanmar).

At 8.35am Myanmar time (10.05 Singapore time), amma's helper Than Than WhatsApped me a video of amma taking slow, shallow breaths.

"Bro, good morning. Amma not so well. Pray for her," was the message.

A minute later, I sent over my voice recording saying "Amma, this is Wai Kit, I'm in Myanmar. I love you!"

Than Than replied to say she played the voice clip, and that "yes, okay, amma can hear".

By the time I got to the lift, I was busy messaging amma's other god child telling her of the news.

By the time my lift reached the ground floor, my WhatsApp message read: "Amma just passed away".

My world was supposed to feel dizzy with the news.

But no.

I remember feeling very calm.

It wasn't a natural instinct.

It was my training from years of being in the news industry; the kind of calmness you force upon yourself when you're live on TV, knowing you're watched by perhaps millions in the region and one misstep, one piece of inaccurate information could cause you at worst, your job.

It was definitely a forced - and unnatural - sense of calmness I felt.

And it was good I could have that calmness.

While I was travelling to work from home, I made a few initial calls.

One, to my God sis, who sounded incoherent.

I spoke with deliberate slowness, hoping to inspire her to stay calm.

"Go shower now, then travel safely to amma's house."

My God brother, I learnt, was in court fighting a case, and had already been informed.

He would be calm, I decided.

I called my amma's grandson next, breaking the news to him, and instructed him to take the day off and be the big man whom I know he now is, and keep an eye on his mum who was obviously panicked.

Twenty minutes later, while I threw myself into work, amma's grandson called, assuring me that he's "on it" and that he's keeping a close watch on his mum, and that he'll make sure that every of amma's old sisters is paired up with a younger, able bodied relative or family friend.

The day flew by - partly because it was a busy news day.

By the end of the day, I knew I had to cope with my own loss.

I spoke to my boss about it - who insisted that I can return for the wake and funeral.

In the end, I chose not to, mainly because I had no regrets: I had said my goodbyes properly; I was around during amma's final moments, and I had been able to get myself involved in the initial process of her wake arrangements.

The next day, I stayed home and called everyone, speaking to amma's sisters, Than Than, and whoever was at the wake.

Though I was physically in Myanmar, I felt that I was around - I had a constant stream of photos and videos of the wake, from amma's newspaper obituary which listed my name as her Godson and snapshots of relatives and family friends, right to the day of amma's cremation, where people lovingly lay flowers in amma's coffin.

Friends who're here made sure I was okay.

Friends back home made sure to check on me.

And my god-family kept in close touch with me, often asking if I were coping well.

Then, two weeks ago, I dreamt of amma.

In my dream, my mum had told her that I was hungry and amma went to the kitchen to make me some food.

When I saw her, I ran to her, hugged her, kissed amma on her forehead as I would normally do, and said to her "it's so good to see you".

I shared the dream with my god-sister and her son.

To my surprise, that day, they too dreamt of amma.

One dream shared with me was that amma was walking hand in hand with appa (who died years before she did), before they both turned and waved.

"She must have taken the day off to say her goodbyes to us one-shot," I joked.

Earlier, I shared this story with a friend.

Her words were most comforting.

"My friend, you've said goodbye to her body and in that kitchen, to her soul," she said.

She's right.

Though I hadn't said goodbye to amma in person, I have said goodbye to her twice.

And memories of amma will always, always stay with me.

Of how she'd feed me rice by hand - by lumping it into a ballish mesh; of how she'd always talk about how cheeky I was as a kid, of how I would spend so many nights sleeping over when appa makes me hot milo and his signature egg sandwich in the mornings.

And though amma is no saint, to me, she will always be the most perfect amma.

Read about my backside

Some writers bare their souls in their blog entries.

Today, I bare my buttocks in this blog post.

My left buttock, to be precise.

I'm inspired to write about one of the sexiest parts of my body because I am currently recovering from a minor surgery.

Plus, I'm bored.

And sometimes when I'm bored, I write.

And since my last blog entry was in May 2015, I thought why not make a sensational comeback and write about something close to my, erm, heart?

So.

Nearly 10 years ago, I underwent a rather unusual surgery (read related post here).

It started out as a little red dot: A pimple relatively near my anus.

The year must have been 2006.

Because that was when I started being more serious with triathlon training.

The pimple first developed after a particularly arduous stretch of my bike-riding training sessions in preparation for a triathlon race.

Back then, I thought nothing of the pimple thinking it would go away after a while.

It did - but it came back, bigger and fiercer.

Fast forward to 2011, the recurring pimple took a life form of its own.

The original site of the pimple had grown larger so it stretched from the area near my anus to my butt cheek near my thighs - it looked like a thick slice of dried mango pasted on my butt.

Yet, I chose to live with it because going under the knife would mean that I'd have to stop all triathlon and marathon activities. 

On some days, after a 20km run, that region would swell, making it extremely difficult to sit still.

But it came to a point when antibiotics could no longer tame the Backside Beast so I had to operate on it.

In 2011, I did just that.

When I woke up from my surgery, my doctor had very cheerily explained to me what she found.

The original pimple was a cyst, formed because I had been sitting too long on my bike.

And when she cut me open, she found an active abscess - filled with pus and infected flesh.

To eradicate that inflamed region, she would have to - get this - carve out my flesh as if it were a Halloween Pumpkin.

"Then we stuffed gauze into that cavity," I remember the doctor telling me at my bedside.

"So when you get home, just pull out that gauze and soak your buttock in a tub of water with this solution," she said merrily.

I conveyed that message to my younger brother.

"You'll have to help me with the wound dressing," I told him.

He said yes immediately without thinking twice.

When I got home and saw the extent of my surgery, I told my brother that he might faint upon seeing the wound, so I would try to change the dressing myself instead.

He said yes immediately without thinking twice.

Because this is what I told him.

When I got home to pull out the said gauze out of my cavity... the gauze turned out to be at least 1-metre long.

I would never have imagined that I would one day pull something of that magnitude out of my backside.

If I had been in a party, I would be very popular at that point in time.

But I was in my home toilet - which looked like a crime scene.

After about one and a half hours of gingerly cleaning my wound, I studied my backside carefully.

And, I kid you not, my left buttock looked exactly like the side profile of Pac Man.

It was a hauntingly interesting visual.

The cavity of my left buttock looked as if it could nicely fit a generous slice of birthday cake. 

I tried very hard to estimate the size of the cavity and finally, decided that the best description would be that I could horizontally fit in five malleable HB pencils into it.

The idea of carving out all my flesh and leaving the wound open, according to my doctor, is so that I can get rid of the abscess once and for all.

It would then allow the flesh to grow back, by way of granulation, so that the healing is more natural.

And as I type this, I am recovering from a minor surgery that could potentially be abscess-related.

This time though, I'm nipping the problem in the bud - getting rid of a cyst at the back of my neck that's starting to get bigger and more inflamed.

And this lookback at my 2011 surgery reminds me that if I could recover well from that, I too, can for this op.

Though I'm not sure if you could recover from the images I've just put in your head from this blog post. 

My reflection on Nepal

The woman had not seen her husband for a while.

But she didn't expect him to change so much in just five days.

His skin was dry, leathery, crinkled.

One part of his skull was sunken like a quashed can of beer.

And his eyeballs had dropped out of their sockets.

The woman, in her thirties, was a villager of Lalitpur, a community at the outskirts of Kathmandu.

And she had just seen her husband for the first time, five days after a major quake struck Nepal, causing her house to crumble like the failed Lego project of a child.

More than 50 officers from the Singapore Civil Defence Force - and their Thai and Malaysian counterparts - had worked through the rubble to help locate and free the body of her husband.

After a three-hour operation, it took the woman all of 10 seconds to identify her husband.

How does one react, seeing the decomposed body of one's companion?

For this woman, it was just silence.

No tears. No wailing. No drama.

She walked out of the human ring - formed by the linking arms of Nepalese officers to shield the body from onlookers - towards the arms of her sombre-looking relatives.

Then, she began to pound her chest with her right hand.

Slowly at first.

And then, the pounding got harder and faster.

All this while, she wore no expression.

Her breathing quickened as she stared into the distance, her eyes empty.

This was the most heart-breaking scene I had to witness, in my seven days in Nepal, covering the devastation.

Yet, when friends ask me how my stint in the quake-hit country was, my answer is easily this:

I was prepared to see the worst of Nepal but I ended up seeing the best of it, through its people.

On one occasion, while sitting in a small eatery in Gokarna, a village some 10km from Kathmandu airport, a heavyset Nepalese came by to make small talk with me and some members of the Singapore Contingent.

Minutes later, he set a large bottle of Pepsi Cola on our table.

In halting English, he said to us: "I am so happy you come so far to my country to help my people. Please. My treat. I want to thank you."

Such warmth isn't limited only to the adults.

My favourite memory is of a group of kids in Gokarna - whose age ranged between about three and 14 - milling around me and my camera crew as we entered their community.

The SAF medical team had chosen the Gokarna temple as a site for its mobile clinic.

The temple was a familiar gathering point for many of the locals.

One 11-year-old girl, who was playing at the temple grounds, and who spoke the best English among her friends, took it upon herself to investigate me.

Where are you from? What's your name? How old are you? Do you speak Nepalese? What is this for?

Little Miss Curious also wore the hat of Goodwill Ambassador.
 
"This one is Newari," she said with a beam, pointing at a girl with hair the colour of hay, and large eyes of the same shade.

"This one is Rai," she went on, pointing to a petite boy with dark skin and almond-shaped eyes.

Then she turned to me and decided for me - with a giggle - that "you are Sherpa".

I watched as she and her friends prance around me and my equipment one moment, and hop merrily from one pillar to another, the next.

The kids laughed easily.

And when I handed them biscuits from my bag, they took them excitedly but shared the goodies readily with their friends.

It's no wonder these happy little ones grow up to be the Nepalese whose big hearts and warmth touched so many of us, while we were there.

Even in Lalitpur - the village of the woman whose husband was crushed to death when his house fell on him - people were overtly kind despite the tragedy.

My crew and I had decided to head for the rooftop of a building right opposite the collapsed house.

The Nepalese made way for us and gave us space, so that we could film the rubble from that vantage point.

And while we were sending footage back, one woman and her son approached us with trays filled with cups of hot tea and biscuits.

They even trusted us and allowed us into their homes so that we could charge our gear using their precious electricity.

I must admit that my short stint in Nepal did not allow me to feel the full implications of the quake.

I had not travelled to the epicentre to see devastation that would be the visual backdrop against Nepal's climbing death toll.

Nor did I experience numerous aftershocks and landslides.

Or speak to locals to get a sense of how they go about rebuilding their lives.

I know I had done my best during my assignment in Nepal, but I also feel there is more I could do, as a journalist.

Crafting sentences to tell peoples' stories is supposed to be my forte.

And asking questions to bring out peoples' emotions is also supposed to be what I'm good at. 

But that day, as I watched the woman in Lalitpur grieve in her quiet way, words failed me.

I merely stood by her side and said nothing, except looked her in the eye with my hand on her shoulder.

Just for that moment, I forgot how to be a journalist.

So I did my job as a person.

Life in Plastic...

My name is Wai Kit. And I've had cosmetic surgery.

I know, I know. I can feel the jokes coming already:

Man, you should get a refund. 
Did you offend your plastic surgeon?
Getting a brain implant isn't cosmetic surgery.

But it's true. I really did have plastic surgery.

This confession was meant to be made years ago, to reach tens of thousands of households through the magazine company I used to write for.

The story was never published, and my secret never told till this day.

Let's back up a bit.

The year was 2008.

My then-editor asked if I would like to put my head to good use for a story, and I said yes.

The assignment was simple -- test out a new technique that a certain clinic was using for hair transplant, and write about it.

And so, I gamely put my head on the chopping board -- or in this case, operating table -- for the experiment (I was told I was the first Singaporean to undergo the then-new procedure).

And since I've always been concerned about receding hairline, I thought, no harm having the doctor transplant hundreds of follicles from the back of my head to both sides of my forehead, near my hairline.

Or so I thought.

The procedure was a failure.

Within weeks of the transplant, I had a root shock - nearly half of the follicles had dropped, the way my story was headed.

And for the longest time, the surviving follicles did sprout strands of hair - except they looked really out of place on my head. The inch-long, curly strands would fit in better elsewhere - my armpits, my groin, my legs.... anywhere but my head.

But I lived with it because my real hair could cover up the streaks -- or should I say -- freaks of nature.

I recently had them all shaved away -- but only because my sponsored stylist insisted on it.

Though the plastic surgery was a flop, it came in handy during party conversations.

I even showed them once to a colleague -- just to cheer her up from a bad day at work. If I had snapped a photo of her chortling away at my hair, I would have captioned it laughing stalk. 

I bring up this colourful fact of my life today partly because of Renee Zellweger -- and mainly because my friends and I recently discussed whether we would go under the knife in the name of beauty.

If we had talked about this in my 20s, I would have firmly said no (says he who just confessed he'd been through it - but hey, that's in the name of journalism, so it doesn't count).

Indeed, I once attended a media event and covered a story on plastic surgery where the door gift was -- take a deep breath -- vouchers for free botox shots.

I declined to accept any of those nonsense because I had grown to love my own face.

And I think I was made the way I am for a reason and at no point am I entitled to change that.

But now, I'm not so sure.

When Age pencils more lines across your forehead, or drains the blackness out of your hair, or randomly splashes freckles across your face as if an excitable kid had just gained access to a calligraphy paintbrush, principles can change.

And so I found myself toying with the idea of plastic surgery.

I started by exploring the idea of eyebrow embroidery ($2,000 which can last you two years -- thanks Karen for the info). I've always lamented that I have thin eyebrows anyway.

And since my Indian godparents used to say I've got a flat Chinese nose, it wouldn't hurt to have its bridge raised a bit.

Oh, and double eyelids would certainly stop all the I-can't-see-your-eyes-when-you're-laughing jokes.

Perhaps, skin lift would be good too.

And while I'm at it - why not go all out and throw in botox shots, tummy tuck, jaw reshaping and even breast enhancement if it comes as a freebie?

Okay, you get the idea.

Plastic surgery can be addictive -- even when you're merely writing about it.

But I'm glad I'm making myself go through this mental checklist because this exercise has given me new insights.

10 years ago,  I would have frowned at myself until the creases of my wrinkles are capable of crushing ants to death.

But today, my principles and views have changed.

Partly because, between my 20s and my mid-30s, I've grown (and aged).

I've become more open. More critical. More suspicious. More careful. I question more, and ponder upon issues more frequently. 

I admit I surprised myself with my newfound back-paddling view on plastic surgery.

Yet, I'm heartened to know that I will never be a stubborn old fool who refuses to change with time (and age).

So, who knows.

Maybe I'll go for another hair transplant.

Or fix those thin eyebrows.

Whatever it is, I'll get them done guiltlessly.

Because while Age has given gravity permission to work on sagging my body parts -- or allowed the sun to make beef jerky out of my skin, it's also added wisdom and new insights as a form of compensation.

I guess that's the beauty of it.

An athlete's sordid confession

Endurance sports is a dirty sport.

I remember famously stepping on mud-like substances in a toilet in East Coast Park during one triathlon race.

I was barefoot - I had surrendered my shoes along with my bike at the transition area and then I had the urge to purge.

No choice.

Also, my friends never fail to remind me that the sea is filled with all sorts of other substances - including ashes of corpses scattered there.

Nice.

And every year, I take the rare opportunity to pee alongside hordes of other men with bursting bladders, along scenic marathon routes.

Don't ask me how we keep our hands sanitised. Let's not go there.

And even if you do your best to stay clean, there's always the chance of getting your arm swiped by another sweaty runner whose talents are obviously not in the department of giving others personal space in a race.

Which is why I thought I would be the cleanest, non-sweaty person at the recent Zoot TRI-Factor Triathlon race.

I was there for work - so that meant I didn't have to step on mud-like substances barefoot, or immerse myself in the ashes-filled sea, or whip out my favourite appendage in public while staring at blank space ahead of me.

Or so I thought.

So there I was, standing at the finishing line in my slippers, waiting for my interviewee to finish her race, when I felt someone spilling water on my right foot.

As I turned to investigate which idiot had thought of celebrating Songkran Festival in Singapore, I gasped.

A woman was kneeling before me, at my foot.

And not in a good way either.

The lean athlete who has obviously pushed herself a tad too much to finish her race had been puking at my foot.

I never knew I had such an effect on women.

But there was no time to ponder on such mysteries - our athlete is busy reproducing her carbo-loaded breakfast for all to see.

From what I could make out, Ms Athlete didn't really chew her food to death since the morsels were all quite bite-sized.

There were some dough-like substances - likely to be bread - and traces of noodles in her pool of breakfast but I couldn't quite put my finger to what sauce base the noodles had been cooked in.

Maybe if I sniffed robustly enough, I could tell but I didn't really want to solve the puzzle.

What I did want to solve though, was her vomiting problem.

Her body must not like being punished by the gruelling distance and was quite apparent it was returning the favour by punishing her.

Every three seconds, Puking Princess jerked forward and with the momentum of an agile athlete, flushed out liquefied food, fast flooding the gravel path of our lovely East Coast Park.

I immediately proceeded with the all-important task of patting her on the back.

Her body must have taken that as a literal encouragement because it went on to puke even more food.

When the body had exhausted all its strength and purged out the offensive morsels, she looked up at me gratefully and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

Ok, please don't speak. I've seen it happen in movies. Please don't puke in my face. Please. 

Instead, I said with cheerful assurance, "it's totally fine. Really. And congratulations on completing the race."

It's true.

Don't get me wrong - I'm hygienic.

But I seriously didn't mind being Victim Vomit.

I thought about it later that day, and figured I had probably morphed into athlete-mode.

You see, those who race would agree with me that there are sporty samaritans around.

When the going gets tough, quite often, athletes would mutter words of encouragement to his fellow racer.

Once, I witnessed how a runner stopped suddenly by the road, clutching his cramped leg.

Almost immediately, three runners flocked to his side to help him stretch.

Nobody seemed to mind that the fella's leg was glistening with sweat, like it was a shimmering turkey made for a food photo shoot.

On another occasion, I experienced the same kind of encouragement from total strangers, when I tripped and fell during a run (nobody rushed to me to start massaging my leg or caress any of my body parts, but their verbal concern was most touching).

And I crave such humanity seen mainly at races. 

I spent my entire morning last Sunday, witnessing - and soaking in - that sporting energy.

There were cheers and applause from spectators.

There was such vibrancy among participants - some paused for a mini-second just to say hi to a familiar face. 

Others made funny remarks at friends who were slower - like, my grandmother can cycle faster lah dei! Hurry up!

I also saw complete strangers pacing and challenging each other towards the finishing line.

I saw how they shook hands and congratulated each other for completing the race.

And it was from the point of view of a spectator that day, that I realised for the first time in my racing life... that there's one more thing I love about endurance sports.

The encouraging, brotherly care athletes have for fellow athletes, brought out in such an environment.

So the next time you need to puke at the end of the race, just let it go, let it go.

There's a lot of love at races to take your vomit - or any kinds of shit, for that matter. 

Standing Down the Broad Jump

I'm still jumping as I type this.

From anger.

And partly also from the haunting after-effects of jumping multiple times at the Standing Broad Jump station.

Okay, I exaggerate.

It's not multiple times.

Just twice.

I only had two shots at jumping at least 189cm - the passing distance for someone my age, for the annual fitness test - and twice, I screwed it up.

Can one. Can one. I've done this before and never failed it, I reminded myself as I stood with both feet shoulder-length apart, and began swaying my body to create momentum that would soon bring me no further than where I was.

One of the hard parts of this is trying to look normal while doing the one most awkward swinging motion any self-respecting 35-year-old adult could do, without looking like a lewd lunatic thrusting his hips at imaginary body parts in front of him.

The next hard part, of course, is to land as far as you can.

Every year, I settle for Silver because I couldn't jump far enough to hit the criteria for a Gold standard.

But that's okay. Silver is not a fail.

Oh, but not this time.

At my first attempt, I landed clumsily at the 198th mark. Yay, pass!

But my stupid body had to tilt back from imbalance so instinctively, my hands supported myself from falling backwards with a thud.

That's when my first attempt was rendered fail, because the Standing Broad Jump machine will register the point of contact that's nearest from where we jumped.

In short, I failed the first attempt because the machine thought my palms were my feet.

It's okay, there's another try, says the fitness instructor helpfully.

Yah, right. Another try.

You know how, before stepping into a clinic for a full body check up, you empty your bladder only to find out from the nurse that you'll need urine sample for your check up?

Erm, but I just peed one minute ago. How to find the urine for you, missy?

That's exactly how I felt.

I used up all my strength to propel forward for that 198, and you're asking me - who's spent and empty - to try AGAIN?!

Never mind. Try.

The second attempt was a 180.

If it were PSLE scores, I would have passed. But it was IPPT, too bad.

So I clocked 0 points for my Standing Broad Jump station - which, in Monopoly, means do NOT pass Go, do NOT collect 200 and go straight to jail.

And that got me fuming.

Look. All my life, I had been relatively fit. And now.... I am deemed unfit because I can't leap?

Got technique one. Can train one, was what a friend told me.

Yes, yes, yes. Can train. But it's like training for a shot at gambling.

IPPT testers might as well set up a station where, after we sweat it out at some stations, come and try our luck, roll a dice and see if we're lucky or unlucky before deciding how fit we are.

This is a silly analogy but it's how I feel the Standing Broad Jump station to be - see if you're lucky or not lah.

That got me thinking about how the IPPT truly reflects one's fitness.

Never mind that the NSman can run 10km in 52 minutes flat, or 2.4km in 10 minutes, or can do 12 pull ups. Never mind all that. Cannot jump means unfit, sorry. 

And that also got me thinking how relevant the IPPT is.

Take me. I serve the police force when I'm on reservist.

So, let's say I can do my shuttle run in under 10 seconds.

It proves that I'm able to produce that burst of energy, right?

Let's apply it to my policing work.

Suppose I need that burst of energy to last me 20, 30, or maybe even 60 seconds. Would I be able to sustain that?

And just what can I do with my under-10-second shuttle run prowess?

What, sprint to the burglar, touch his shoes, sprint back to my police vehicle, touch the tyres, then sprint back and handcuff the fella, issit?

What about Standing Broad Jump?

I chase a robber for 2.4km, and when I see a longkang, I immediately get into position (feet shoulder-length apart, body begins swaying in a lewd, forward-hip-thrusting motion), jump, then continue chasing the fella, issit?

Perhaps, it's timely what Defence Minister said about the IPPT.

That it's time to make it simpler (how ironic that I was one of the journos who had reported this piece of potentially good news, only to later rue the fact that it hadn't come any sooner).

I guess it's seriously time to re-think the IPPT.

No need to make us do the Standing Broad Jump station, and make us jump through hoops to gauge our fitness levels.


You can trust that I'll still be jumping from now on.

But only because I'll be training to pass the wretched station, and not be defeated by something that I feel is an unfair marker of physical fitness.