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Fate

I went out mid-morning for a ride, feeling unrestrained. How wonderful (and deeply privileged) it is to be presented with these choices: riding and not riding. And how easy it is to pick one among the two, knowing one promises joy while the other would only color the day with a tint of regrets.

And so, I stepped out of the house to meet the world. The sun had crept higher, but the air remained pleasant on my descent to Simpang Dago, and past the shaded Siliwangi street. Through the earpieces, someone read me passages from A Room of One's Own. As I turned my way right and began the gentle climb on Ciumbuleuit street, in my ears the voice read:

"Moreover, in a hundred years, women will have ceased to be the protected sex. Logically they will take part in all the activities and exertions that were once denied them. All assumptions founded on the facts observed when women were the protected sex will have disappeared."

Virginia Woolf wrote that in 1928. In 2026, two years short of a hundred since the publication, we can say with fair confidence, and with proof, that women have ceased to be the protected sex. We are now taking part in activities and exertions that were once denied us. But this is only to a certain extent. It hasn't happened to all of us. There's still that assertion: that we cannot do this, that we're incapable of doing that, even in places where we are no longer the protected sex.

My ride is possible at all because the women who came before me protested against that assertion, and overcome it. And that allowed me to protest against and overcome it myself, in the hope that a hundred years from now it's no longer something that we have to protest against and overcome.

"Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation," the voice continued.

***

I was reaching for the end of the climb when the striking color of the marigolds by the side of the road caught my eyes. I stopped in my track. The flowers grew wild in the crack of soil on the edge of the concrete of the road shoulder, close to a ditch where gray murky waste water runs from the higher ground. The water emits foul smell.

Still, in that wretched place, these little things blossom in vibrant yellow and red, not less of an object of beauty that deserves my admiration, despite where they grow.

Few meters from the flowers, in the middle of the road now, I saw a butterfly, fluttering its wings on the ground, unable to fly. Once again, I stopped in my tracks, and picked up the butterfly, placing it on my palm. It stayed motionless. Against the knowledge that animals cannot speak, I asked it: "are you okay?" I walked toward the other side of the road where the elephant grass grow in abundance. I put the butterfly on one of the blades, where it crawled a little and finally latched on the underside of the grass, upside down. I looked around and in the air I saw the other butterflies of similar kind flit about, hither and tither. I felt bad for the one now hanging on its thin anthopod legs, its wings folded. I looked at those tiny eyes, each one has 17,000 lenses, 34,000 in total, allowing it to see the world in all directions at once, in impossible details and color spectrum human vision couldn't perceive.

What do I do now except to trust its fate, as I've come to trust mine, to nature, from where we both came and to where we'll both return.

in communion

I went out of the warmth of home into Dago's early crisp morning air. The time on my Wahoo was 6.32 a.m.

The yellow blooms up in the tabebuia tree of the house next door signaled, not promised, the change of season.

When I got to the main road, the traffic was still timid, like small streams of water, with only few motorbikes moving at reasonable speed. Fewer cars too. Hawkers were pushing their carts to set up stall by the sidewalk: bubur, nasi kuning, kupat tahu. In the east, the sky blushed pale yellow. The sound of birds filled the air, not yet drown out by human noise.

There's something sacred in that brief moment of dawn not yet disturbed.

As I went down the slope on the road, heading toward Simpang, I found myself wishing everyone already out in the open-air arena of living, right here, right now, in this glorious golden hour, felt it too.

That in sharing that feeling, we're in communion, and not so lonely in our collective struggle living in this beautiful but ill-governed country.

The God of Small Things

It has been a while since the last time I read a good book. And by a good book, I mean books that are good for me, in my own opinion. Books that some people might find not as good as the books that are good for them. Just how peanuts are good for some people but not for those who are allergic. Not sure if that's an apt comparison, but allow me to underline that what follows will be as personal (messy and incoherent) as it gets.

To circle back, it has been a while since the last time I read a good book. And by a good book, I mean the ones high up in the list of books that I enjoy reading simply because they tick the following boxes:

1) I like the story

2) I like how the plot is structured

3) I like how the author is generous with words, hauling them from the ocean of their personal lexicon, like fishermen hauling fish; then, with those fish-like words, they take their sweet sweet time to put them in orderly details the way things look, sound, smell, taste, and feel to the touch, evoking sensations and emotions, and ideas

4) I want to fill every single liminal space in my waking hours swimming in the waters of the story and completely getting swept away

Recently joining the ranks: The God of Small Things.

It also has been a long long while since I wrote anything about a book I read. Most of the time I was too lazy. But for this one, I felt compelled to air it out under a delusion (I'm aware) that I'm somewhat doing a public service (for which public, I don't know). That's how good the book is. TL;DR is at the bottom of this post.

Over the two weeks since I cracked the book open, I was not only swimming, but downright drowned in the story; in the way that's a slow pull at first and then sudden descent into fast-sucking whirlpool from which escape is impossible. I couldn't remember why, not three years ago, I DNF'ed a few chapters in. I must've been a different person then, and I guess it's true what Alain de Botton said that "Most of what makes a book 'good' is that we are reading it at the right moment."

Also, another way to know that I'm reading a good book is the creeping sadness towards the end: a point where the story will be over, and this precious first read experience is coming to a close. I'm torn between this and the urging desire to find out how that end would be. Because no matter how good a story is, you still yearn for closure: the why, the who, the whatnot.

For the final chapters of The God of Small Things, I spent the whole weekend burying my face in pages, with my eyes and mind ramming into printed words with only half a regard for what they really mean. And when it did come to a close, when I figured out the why, the who, and the whatnot, I almost broke down. I was at a crowded coffee shop when I read the last word in the book ("Tomorrow."), I had to hold back the incoming waterworks.

At home, it was a full-blown sobfest. V came to offer me comfort, and a pack of tissue to wipe away tears and snot. Only when I was calm did she ask what it was about the book that turned me into this ugly sopping mess.

A family saga with harrowing histories. A tale spun under the subtext of gender, race, and class, resulting in some sad and horrible deaths, including that of a child, Sophie Mol, whose funeral was on the forefront of the opening chapter. And for the children who survived, Estha and Rahel, their childhood was in the brink of ruin, on their way to become adults who suffered in their madness and numbness. One quiet, the other empty.

Some said that the book is difficult, but the prose is beautiful it's worth the challenge. I love the invitation to think a little harder to arrive at a point or an idea, buried under heaps of snaking and circling $5 words. Reading the book feels like seeing with a magnifying glass. Big things, major events (like somebody's death), are described casually, mere suggestions. And the small things, the fractal moments, in painstaking minute details. In those descriptions of small things, I was reeled in through a portal to a small community in Keralan backwater. That in my mind I could see vividly a house with a garden and gravel driveway standing on a small hill, a factory with a barn owl living on the beam near the skylight, the red soil, the swollen body of river after a tropical storm that's not entirely unfamiliar; hear the spashing of water and the sound of a train station, the sound of a person crushed under the tyranny of police brutality; feel the humidity in the air; hear the rustling of rubber trees in the wind, the crunch of dry leaves being stepped on; smell and taste the hint of iron in blood. A Bollywood production more brutally heartbreaking than Atonement.

But above all, what I understand is this: in the broad span of a miserable life, there will be intense happiness concentrated in moments, in the small things, where everything seems to be outside of time and that forever is possible. Until it's not. Because things can change in a day.

There's a passage that goes like this:

The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don't deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don't surprise you with the unforseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of you lover's skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don't. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won't. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn't. And yet you want to know again.

And that's exactly why I'm reading the book again right now immediately after finishing. The last time I did this was in 2015, for Rebecca Solnit's A Field Guide to Getting Lost.

As promised, TL;DR: The God of Small Things ticks all the boxes. It's fucking good, dammit.

To be content

This morning, before going on a ride, I caught a young cicada near home, fresh out of its former self as a nymph, basking in the early sunlight.

I couldn't help but stare at this little scene that looks to me like a physical manifestation of memory, the past echoing in the present.

Being in this moment with this cicada feels like stepping into Virginia Woolf's essay, The Death of the Moth. How eloquent and how deep her observation of a small, seemingly-insignificant creature that also carries cosmic energy that courses through all the living being in this earth, including you and me.

I have a tendency to intellectualize an experience, trying to find answers and meanings behind it. I excuse myself: it's just human nature, trying to make sense of things. I wish, and try desperately, to find the words to paint that experience and, in the process, hope to arrive at a meaning. I know machine can write this better, but it doesn't know, can't never know, how an experience looks, sounds, tastes, and feels like. To be desperate, to fall short, to err is human.

But most time, having looked at it exhaustively and found nothing that makes what I experience more than what it is; how nothing makes the blue sky, the trees, the birds, the life cycle of a cicada more beautiful than I already find them, I have to remind myself that sometimes the best thing to do is to let it pass and to be the witness of it.

This world is full of mystery. And to be content with life, even for a brief moment, seems to be enough. Like this cicada, even with its hard fate of spending years under the soil in its subterranean suit, it emerges above ground to go through the season finale of its life. It will climb high trees to join the chorus of its species in a loud announcement of the right to exist that comes from a diminutive size of an insect body. And it will die a few weeks later.

But this morning, it lives and it's waiting for the right moment to climb. Just a few hours later, maybe, but right now, it's made enough.

This morning, in Virginia's description of the moth, it's little or nothing but a pure bead of life.

The First 31 Days

I really hope I could make it stick through the last 99 days.

That was what I wrote in the prologue of last year's The Last 99 Days project.

So much for hoping.

I could only get to write up to the last 83 days. Sixteen posts, with a day missing. After that, nothing. No consecutive rides either. The project fell apart, New Year's Day is over a month ago, and 2026 is about 90% complete.

How thick-skinned am I to come back here and address this ... failure?

The side effect of getting older: you grow a thicker skin and find yourself more comfortable in it. Something about aging that gives you the ability to accept, with grace and kindness, that you have flaws and that sometimes you fail.

No matter. This is me offering myself that grace and kindness. What better gift could you give yourself for your own 36th birthday?

The last entry I posted here was about my arrival in Malaysia for Peninsular Divide. I penned the report of the race on Substack in five installments. It was a long-form project that I really enjoyed working on as much as I enjoyed riding the race. Writing and publishing those newsletters also assuaged the embarrassment of not being able to complete the Last 99. Dividing the report into five parts almost seems like overcompensating. Cringe. But to hell with that. I'm in my cringe era.

After the Peninsular Divide, I didn't do many notable rides. Scratch that. Because the truth is, I didn't ride much. A week usually went by with only one quick spin, just enough to keep the Strava's streak going. I did Bikesystem Rides 500 toward the end of the year to spike up the graph, but after that, it went back to almost flatline.

Let us take a moment to appreciate these money shots that Feno took of me while I suffered my way up Cijapati climb. Totally worth it.

***

On my first Instagram post of 2026, I wrote this caption to accompany a series of images ranging from bikes to rivers, cats to clouds, trees to fish: if you see this post, turn off the screen, go outside, touch some grass. Two days later, on a wet recce ride for the upcoming Bikesystem's event, while riding on a grassy and muddy singletrack in the countryside, I slipped and took a nosedive into the murky water of an irrigation ditch. The bike and I survived the accident unscathed, but the next day, the screen of my phone won't turn on. I guess it took my unsolicited advice.

So I was sans phone for a week. I still kept it charged, still heard sounds coming out of it with nothing displayed on the screen. Just a thin black slab of vibrating, pinging brick. In some strange ways, it was the best thing that happened to me. I was in no hurry to respond to the demand of the unceasing notification (only checking and replying to WhatsApp messages on my laptop). At the onset of unstimulated state, I reached out for my phone only to find a black mirror. I was forced to be in the present moment. Then, I noticed how quiet and empty my mind was without the constant stimuli of digital content and information. Like a white spacious room without furniture. Or, like stepping into a rolling meadow.

You know how the loss of one sense will heighten the other? It was almost like that. Deprived of the phone, my brain started to rewire itself and slowly give me my attention back. I stared long into the swaying trees, drifting clouds, slanting lights, ants marching up a wall in a single row. It was so fucking boring, and I liked it. I held my cats in my arms, looked them in the eyes, and recognized that beneath the fur and the flesh, the blood and the breath, there's a soul in there.

But, the best thing about this period of digital seclusion was the unclenching of some feelings. The shame and agony of doing constant comparison. The grief and helplessness at the suffering and horrors happening in many different corners of the planet. The disgust and rage at the slimy, greedy, powerful few who let them happen. All these things slowly loosened their grip. I was finally touching grass.

And then, without any meaningful intervention on my part, the display turned back on, and mentally I'm back under that murky water of being perpetually distracted.

***

For my birthday, V took me to Cirebon. We brought along Topstone and SuperSix inside V's wee Karimun Wagon, which fit both bikes and defy logic. The plan was to ride easy around this port town for food, coffee, and old buildings. And we did that, even under the intermittent showers. We went to H. Sadi for nasi lengko and beef satay breakfast combo, then to our favorite tahu gejrot stand in Pasar Kanoman, before settling in this coffee shop we found tucked away in a quiet residential area in Kesambi.

The coffee shop is an old house typical of the colonial era, with a two-panel wooden door and louvered windows, a limasan-style roof, and black stone veneer on white mortar joint cladding the bottom part of the exterior walls. It's shaded under the surrounding trees, adding to the evergreen vibe from ivy plants that sprawl over the fences. It got the whole recipe for an enduring charm. The coffee is good and reasonably priced. Roaming on the ground is a friendly calico cat who gives you a love bite if you pet her with too much gusto. The leaves of the trees tremble in the breeze that's been blowing in Cirebon, cooling the whole place down. We sit at the table by the porch until noon, talking and watching Australian Open matches on the phone. The next day, before leaving for Bandung, while V was in the yoga studio, I came back for the coffee and stayed for the tranquility.

On the way home, we just realized this was the third consecutive time we visited Cirebon around the New Year holidays, and each year we discovered at least something we could use as an excuse to return on the next visit. The first year, it was the yoga class; the second, angkringan Mas Jo; the third, the most recent, Kopi Rumah Kesambi, and the fact that the name of the man running the angkringan was not Jo but Bambang. The "Jo" in "Mas Jo" is actually short for "Jogja."

***

For weeks, I've been waking up to exceptionally wet and grey mornings. The sky looks like it's going through a period of mourning. It weeps in grief several times a day. The roads are slick, the air is cooler than usual. Amidst this uncertain weather, we planned an Everesting attempt on this 2km climb in Dago Resort. On Saturday, the morning of the challenge, I went out of the house and saw the swath of amber filling the clear eastern sky. After weeks of ceaseless rain, the forecast today was sunny with a small chance of showers. The universe was on our side.

George Everest never climbed, let alone reached, the highest peak in the Himalayas. In fact, he was not that stoked when the British officials decided to name "Peak XV" after him. Why would you give a white, male-sounding name to what the natives referred to as Holy Mother in Tibet and Goddess of the Sky in Nepal?

Among the starters, Tasha and I emerged as the last women standing. Fifty plus laps and a little over 25 hours later, we punched in 9000+ meters of climbing in one single sleepless push. When the ride was uploaded into Strava, I changed the title of the activity to Peak XV's rightful name from the Tibetan side: Chomolungma. Here's to the Holy Mother, Goddess of the Sky.

There was a point (several, actually) during the ride when it felt impossible to go on. Every single cell in my body begged me to stop. I saw Tasha, hunching low on her bike, legs spinning in rhythm, slow and steady in the dead of the night. At the base of the climb, Yudi, Aryo (who earlier cleared out half the target elevation), and Gyna were guarding the cornucopia of fuels and nourishment that our friends brought in during the day. This gave me strength.

It might seem like a solitary effort, but it's not. We were in this together. You're as good as the company you keep.

Later that day, I went to V's contemporary dance showcase. While most of her peers performed choreographed pieces, V's project was a concept video featuring a dancer friend and herself. Paying homage to the works of the van Opstals, she explored the complexity of human connection as a living and evolving thing.

View this post on Instagram

I helped shoot and edit the footage at V's direction. It didn't happen right away, but later I enjoyed being involved in the creation process. And I'm happy to learn from V that the work was well-received.

My personal interpretation? Connection and relationships are messy. It demands courage to be in a community, even when it's the community of two. The courage to trust, to show up, to be open and be seen. It's not always perfect or convenient, but it's hella rewarding to be part of a tribe. To belong: undeniably, it's our innate need, even for the most introverted among us.

With that takeout, January couldn’t have gone better.

Until next time.

Bandung, February, 2026

#Instagram

The Last 83 Days

I woke up at 3.30 AM today in the last clothes I wore when I got home the night before. Packing the bike got me so beat I went to sleep without even changing, let alone posting the dispatch of the last 84 days. I swear, all these last minute dealings... I didn't even have a proper time to be nervous for the big adventure I'm about to embark on.

Out of the bedroom, I found half of the kitty population at home was still asleep. They got frisky the whole time I was packing last night, running around, jumping in and out the bike case while I tried to figure out how to pack the bike without having to take off the integrated handlebar, which I had zero capability for.

The hour was so still, so quiet.

In a sleepy haze, I took off my sweater and realized that I was drenched in sweat, my tshirt is all wet. I stepped in the shower and my day begun. First by catching up and finishing all pending tasks at work, and then catching the bus to the airport. I missed it by just a minute, thanks to Bandung traffic that's getting worse by day. Good thing they have hourly departure. Another good thing, a bonus hour to be with V (which didn't help with the ache I felt when the bus pulled away).

The rest of the day was all about traveling. It's ironic how I should use that word "travelling" which suggests movement when in fact all I ever did was sitting: on the bus, at the terminal, on the plane, and in the car. The whole day, I was a parcell, no different than a cargo.

But in less than 48 hours, I'll be the engine, my bike the machine.

Malaysia, please play nice.

To be fair, it's still 11:26PM in WIB. | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Pengerang, October 10, 2025

#last99

The Last 85 Days

I'm typing this on my phone. It's almost 10PM and the day has been long and stressful, I think looking one more second at laptop screen would literally make me sick. And I want to go to bed early, so I'll be quick.

I had a quick test ride with my SuperSix, with all the stuff strapped in. Coming out of Adham's workshop, the bike felt amazing. So light, so responsive. Before, it felt like it was on the brink of dying, but now it's just been resuscitated, all vital signs come back to life.

I took the bike to Cisitu, coming out of Dago Pojok, then heading toward Curug Dago. In that quiet, dark, narrow alley, I was feeling scared. Not just a little, but big time. Has it been that long since the last time I was riding under that condition?

And to imagine riding alone in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, in a strange land with nothing around. How do I go around to do that?

Eh, I guess we'll see.

Courage comes first, confidence follows.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 8, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, October 8, 2025

#last99

The Last 86 Days

For a few weeks now, every morning, around 6 and 7, a mama doggy and her two pups have been coming to our doorstep. At first, we didn't know what to do, so we gave them cat food. They liked it and kept coming back, three lively doe-eyed creatures full of energy.

Now, with seven cats at home, I'm obviously a cat person. But I actually like the mother-puppies trio. It's always delightful to see them every morning through the window to the porch, waiting for us to come out. When we do, they will violently wag their tails and hop around as if happy to see us. Or happy that they're about to be fed. That said, even after several visits, they remain shy and keep their distance, which I don't mind.

This morning, after a week coming not as a set of three, they were all back as a unit. We give them proper dog food now, thanks to Ruth. And they were a little bit more trusting: the pups ate the nibbles I held out on my palm. Hesitant, but an improvement still.

Excited to see them again the next morning.

***

I'm keeping the ride easy for the remaining days prior to my departure for Malaysia on Friday. I've found a way to add an appeal to easy rides or to rides you don't feel like doing: secondary motives. For the past weeks, it was to listen to Pride & Prejudice audiobook. Today, it was to try the 10K coffee at Imah Babaturan.

Another way to keep the ride easy (because most time you would betray yourself and end up pushing harder than you should) is to wear everyday clothes. I rode to Imah Babaturan on the Topstone, in a cotton t-shirt and shorts. I stayed there for 2 hours, studying the route to CP4 of the Peninsular Divide, before returning home via Cisitu and Dago Pojok.

And the day rolled on. Thanks to Adham, the bike I'd ride for the race is now race-ready: everything's tuned and lubed up. One final loaded ride test tomorrow and then we'll pack it up.

The grand depart is getting closer. T minus 4 days now.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 7, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, October 7, 2025

#last99

The Last 87 Days

Here's the thing: the easiest part of writing this post every day is the title. The rest … is hard. I would stare at the empty box on the screen while trying to remember how today went. That goes on for at least 5 to 10 minutes before I finally give up and type whatever it is that comes to mind. I call it: The "Fuck it" Method.

That last paragraph you just read? That comes straight from "fuck it, let me just write about how hard it is to come up with what to write that I have to invent a totally made-up phony method about writing."

Why oh why do I have to insist on not using ChatGPT for this project???

And most importantly, why can't I use ChatGPT to clean my house, to do the dishes and the laundry, to take out the trash, to buy groceries so that I have more time to do these things I love that are hard. I swear, having said that, I don't have any illusion that what I do here is important or even remotely good.

I like it because it's mine.

And still, after all that yapping, I couldn't remember much about today except a coffee ride on the Topstone while feeding the stray cats I found along the way (also bumping into Inyo at 5758). Having breakfast at Bubur Anggrek and talking about different kinds of bubur with V (my favorite is bubur Sukabumi; hers is bubur Karawang). Then we spent several hours at a coffee shop near home to get some work done (also because we love the resident cats). Meeting some friends in the late afternoon (Ruth is in town). Then, returning home to do some packing.

Finally, the empty box on the screen and the 26 letters on the keyboard with the possibility to build a whole universe in someone's head.

And this is what you've got.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 6, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, October 6, 2025

#last99

The Last 88 Days

There's a good chance that this time next week I'll be somewhere in the Peninsular Malaysian outbacks, making my way to the first checkpoint of the Peninsular Divide 1500km self-supported race.

Now, if you told me last week that I would be lining up at the second edition of the race, I'd say to you: "ai sia halu?"

But here we are, T minus 7 days until go time.

Che Wan, a fellow participant in Bentang Jawa, called me up Monday last week and invited me to race on his home soil, which would kick off in less than two weeks on October 12.

At once, a passage from the book A Field Guide to Getting Lost came into mind:

Never turn down an adventure without a really good reason.

It didn't take long for me to say yes, and so, everything went into motion: going to Cianjur to renew the passport, dropping the bike at Adham, going back to the packlist spreadsheet, yada yada. I told my manager at work about this project and she fully supported me. V was excited that she'd meet me in KL when the race's done.

After Punclut breakfast and a superfluous afternoon nap, we went to Mandja Dago. While V caught up with work, I studied the route.

The journey will start in Pengerang at the southernmost point of the peninsula. Then, into the plains of Johor to ride among the palm trees, from one felda to another, crossing the state of Pahang before the terrain ticks up into the mountains of Banjaran Titiwangsa, the backbone of the Malaya Peninsula.

In its entirety, the ride will take you across seven states, from south to north, with the finish line being in Wang Kelian in Perlis, 8km away from Malaysia - Thailand border.

I don't see any good reason to turn down this adventure to play on the ground of Indonesia's own next-door neighbor.

As for today's ride, it was a quick one around the heart of Bandung, still vibrant and lively at 10PM. I listened to the final chapters of Pride and Prejudice and reached the end of the audiobook on my way back home, leaving me a little sad because I enjoyed listening to it so much.

Next: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 5, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, October 5, 2025

#last99

The Last 89 Days

I missed my 4:38AM alarm despite setting the phone audio to ringing from the usual vibrate-only or Do Not Disturb. To be fair, I went to bed at half past midnight and left the phone out of the room (the bedroom is a phone-free zone at bedtime). In the past, I prided myself on the ability to wake up at the vibrating sound of the 4AM alarm, even when the phone was outside the bedroom. These days, it's getting harder for the sound to reach into the depths of my subconscious and yank me awake.

And so, because of this, I didn't get to roll out at 5AM like I planned, but at a little past 7AM instead. I almost cancelled it altogether but I didn't want to experience regret later in the day. Plus, I wanted to see my parents and ask for their blessings for my going away next week. So even though I was pedaling on the hefty steel frame of Marina, and even though my legs didn't feel 100%, I went ahead to follow along the Otista street, Kopo, Kamasan, and the long winding road of Banjaran - Pangalengan, with Pride and Prejudice in my ears.

The 47km journey took me 3.5 hours and I spent around 2.5 hours in Pangalengan, during which I told my parents the news at some point. There would be a pengajian, a weekly Quran reciting club (?) initiated by my mother for the women in the neighborhood. It was supposed to start at 1PM. I left before the house was full of ibu-ibu.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 4, 2025 | Strava

V and I set the gym as our rendezvous point. We arrived almost at the same time. When I saw her, her eyes were puffy from crying. One of her cousins just passed away, just a few months after the cousin's own mother died.

The thing about life is that, whether you deem yours good or bad, it happens only once. So does death. No one ever comes back to tell the tales of what happens after that. I hope, for V's relatives, whatever comes next, it's better than the life they had.

After showering at the gym, we went to V's dance studio near Pasir Kaliki for a workshop that V had signed us up for. The theme was healing through journaling and movement. I enjoyed the journaling part. Even after consistently keeping a journal for most of my adult life, it was nice to learn that there are different approaches to it.

The movement part was not necessarily dancing, though the facilitators were dancers. What bugged me during the exercises was how I felt so constrained by my inhibitions and fear that I looked silly and clumsy.

During the journaling session, before we got to movement, there was a trigger mapping segment. It took us to explore what it was that triggered shame or the feeling of not good enough, and put it in writing.

Not exactly the words on the screen but they're in the same ballpark, said in a half-remembered moment in the distant past, in a way no child ever deserves to hear, especially from the person who's supposed to protect it from that kind of verbal harm.

The voice echoed in the back of the child's head throughout its life, until the child became an adult who was now convinced that the voice had been hers all along, and that it's speaking the truth: she will never be good enough.

But lately, the adult has been hearing another voice, a quieter one, that whispers to her in moments when she needs it most. Its surfacing doesn't come as often as she wants it to, but she believes it's there. When it speaks, she holds on to it as long as possible, for the sake of the child she once was.

That's from the first day of the workshop.

One more meeting tomorrow.

Bandung, October 4, 2025

#last99

The Last 90 Days

Another long day stretching me thin.

I could only set aside the time to write this by midnight, technically no longer the last 90 days but who's keeping score anyway?

It was an okay day, though I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't pay much attention. All I could remember was that the day was ordinary, going by just like that: breakfast, then coffee at Mandja Dago, followed by workout at the gym, lunch at Olly Hai, and then work, then work some more, then dinner, and lastly, home.

The ride was squeezed in the cracks between the motion. It was a commute to the gym. After lunch, I dropped off the bike at Adham's for a tune-up, as part of preparation for the fast-coming project next week.

For the ride tomorrow (today!), I've set up Marina for a chill cruising southward. Why not Topstone, you may ask. Well, as lazy as I am, I hadn't been able to get it a brakepad, just got around to ordering them today. If it wasn't for the fast-coming project, the bike would remain brakeless.

That's it, I'm all out. Gotta go to bed and wake up early.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 3, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow (later today!)

Bandung, let's just pretend it's still October 3, 2025

#last99

The Last 91 Days

I was doing the last task of the day and telling myself "one more shit and then sleep" when I remembered that the true last task of the day was for me to write and post this. I have a week's worth of streak in my belt and I don't intend to break it this early in the challenge, even when it was way past bedtime, the day's been long, my ass tired, and my brain barely functioning.

Today began as early as the day before. At just a little past 6AM, we were already in the car, on the way to KBP for V's 7AM class. To me, this meant I got to do the loop for one hour (that's three loops at my snail speed) before having to drive back to Bandung for V's second class of the day at 8:30AM. When she's done at 10AM, we hit the road again, Cianjur-bound.

Yes, we went to Cianjur again today because it's V's turn to deal with the immigration for her passport renewal. The process itself was quick (for a government office), but we decided to take our time and hang out a bit. V got to try geco, and after that, we went for coffee on the other side of town by Olik (short for ojek listrik), Cianjur's new public transportation that's much like a tuk-tuk but electric.

With Mount Pangrango as the backdrop, we stayed at the coffee place for a while, talking about, among others, our mutual fascination with nature and its power to create and destroy in equal measure.

Except with her, I couldn’t think of anyone I could talk to about obscure subjects with ease. I think one of life’s great gifts is having someone who shares your sense of wonder and amazement at subtleties and details, or things the masses deem trivial.

And offering the same in return is like doubling down on that gift.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 2, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, October 2, 2025

#last99

The Last 92 Days

We woke up early and willed ourselves for a 2-hour journey to an immigration office in Cianjur. Something exciting came up that prompted me to renew my passport post-haste. It's been a long while since my last international travel. Hope to touch more on this soon after everything is sorted out. Right now, I'm just trying to roll with the current. Timeline is tight.

Now, if you have to come to the government office, you will have to be zen and bear the lowest expectation possible, otherwise you just set yourself up for disappointment and frustration. Each time I have to deal with official paperwork that involves visits to a government office, it always reminds me of one scene in Zootopia where Judy had to run a plate at the DMV office and found that the staff were all sloths. I remember we were the only adults laughing our asses off in the theatre full of kids.

That said, spending a few hours in Cianjur was actually a happy occasion. We walked around, through the alleys and into the town square. Cianjur has similar charms I found in small towns in Java: narrow main roads, traces of colonial architecture, interconnected streets and pathways.

It was overall pleasant, but my chief discovery must have been the geco (short for tauge tauco) from Cap Meong. It's a local dish that combines boiled / stir-fried mung bean sprouts with special tauco sauce, giving you the trifecta of sweet, sour, and savory. They also add kupat, peanuts, potato, and starch noodles. I LOVE LOVE IT!

***

The ride today was utilitarian in nature: a means to get dinner. It's also an excuse to continue listening to Pride and Prejudice (currently on chapter 44). I was not out long, keeping my trajectory close to home. After getting our meals in Gelap Nyawang, I went back. An uneventful ride in an eventful day.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on October 1, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, October 1, 2025

#last99

The Last 93 Days

Crisp crisp crisp air this morning! The lowest temperature recorded on my Wahoo was 15°C at Kebon Hui, where you could see Malabar in the south with its feet covered in mist.

Today's route took me to Setiabudi Regency, a residential complex whose streets named after precious minerals and stones. Then into the village of Sukamulya, before you reach Kebon Hui (literal translation: sweet potato garden), the stretch that opens the view to the rows of mountains and hills in the south. The climb ends in Villa Trinity, if you take the shortcut. It's quiet and proves to be a nice alternative to Cijengkol. Plus, you could stop by 5758 for a nice hot cup of joe. Unfortunately, I would have to pass that up today.

But on the bright side, I got to bump into Teh Nuy at Setiabudi when I was about to cross the street. She's on her green Canyon, heading to Sukawana all by herself, all the way from Kopo. In different situations, I would've joined her.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on September 30, 2025 | Strava

The rest of the day was packed, but I enjoyed going through it all: coffee in a porcelain cup with a romantic pastoral scene on it, a visit to a friend's house, getting a Thai massage for the first time ever, enchanted by amaryllis flowers that looked like the magic flower in Tangled, and watching the rain from the high ground.

Couldn't help but feel rich by all of this simplicity.

***

Let me wrap this up with MAAP x Public Possession playlist to add some groove to your ride.

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, September 30, 2025

#last99 #Spotify

The Last 94 Days

What are men to rocks and mountains?

One of my favorite quotes from Pride and Prejudice.

I'm currently on Chapter 35, just past the part where Mr Darcy asked Lizzy for her hand in marriage, against his "better judgment, [his] family's expectations, the inferiority of [her] birth, [his] rank and circumstances." What an insufferable prick.

All the time listening to that proposal scene, I kept picturing the live-action version with Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen.

There are only a handful of successful movie adaptations in my very limited personal literary and film repertoire; the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice is at the top of that short list, along with The Hours and Fight Club.

Happy Monday, by the way!

There are millions of reasons to hate this day, but there's one thing about Monday that I look forward to: essay from Chloe Hope. When I checked my inbox this morning, at the top of the climb in Cijengkol, there was a new email from Chloe's essay publication Death & Birds, with the subject Unburdened.

With Tangkuban Parahu and Gunung Putri as my view, I listened to the full 8 minutes of the recorded audio of the essay, read by Chloe herself, in a voice so calming, full of strange reassurance, even when the subject is about death, grief, and the unknown woman of the Seine.

To close the essay, circling back to the opening, Chloe wrote:

This world, stitched together by forces tender and terrible, breaks me and makes me anew in ceaseless repetition. I beg to be unburdened—and never have I been denied.

As I finished listening, drifting clouds blocked the sun and I was shaded. But the clouds were scattered because the field across was slightly brighter than this side where I stood.

In that moment, I, too, was unburdened.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on September 29, 2025 | Strava

***

Before wrapping up, I feel the need to happily share this DJ Komori's set that I stumbled upon on YouTube. It's the mix of the familiar sounds taking me back to the era of my childhood when MTV was aired on national television.

It was one of those Mondays when the universe was being generous.

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, September 29, 2025

#last99 #Youtube

The Last 95 Days

Except for the morning ride with the boys to Surga, Sunday was spent indoors.

And just like that, we finished And Just Like That. I saw vitriol-filled headlines about the series. But I gotta say, I enjoyed watching the show. It's your typical cringey feel-good watch that you won't miss much running in the background.

I'm not going to take long on this post. My writing muscle is tired and the sound of the ASMR videos that V is watching next to me right now is making me more sleepy than I already am (it was 10PM and I just had a glass of Soju Sprite mix).

If you're here expecting something good, I hope these photos would do:

And this last one here was taken by Ule on his Insta360 camera.

View Citra Saraswati's ride on September 28, 2025 | Strava

Until tomorrow.

Bandung, 28 September, 2025

#last99

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