“Huh, hah!” I gasped, the 9 AM sun scorching my head. Kilometre twenty-four was a fairly steep climb. I checked the bike computer — it showed 11%, meaning a gradient of around 6.3 degrees. The water mixed with high-concentration powdered isotonic was still there, but my energy management was clearly terrible.

“Should I just give up and turn back? It’s already a late start today anyway,” I thought.

I gazed around. The yellow concrete marker at the roadside showed the number 23, meaning only half the distance remained before reaching the next town. My eyes drifted to the small screen, which turned out to be shining brightly even under the blazing sun. Only 300 metres more before I’d reach the highest point and coast freely down the other side of the hill.

‘Alright then, I’ll wait for my HR to drop first, then continue slowly.’

***

This was my third stop after a short climb at Salaman. This provincial road — busy with heavy vehicles and long-distance buses — isn’t wide, but there’s enough room to pull a bicycle over safely. And today, I planned to ride 175 kilometres, circling the Menoreh hills, continuing toward Purworejo, the Temon Airport, then Bantul, and finally back home.

Riding the Tambora, armed with candy and chewable chocolate, I was pushing my limits in preparation for the Audax Jogja 100 event I was joining the following week. Unlike today’s untimed ride, the Audax event has a cut-off time of 7.5 hours. Ideally, the organisers set this limit based on the worst-case scenario participants might face — whether carbo loading, mechanical issues, physical limits, or external factors like weather. With that time allowance, my target was to finish in 4.5 hours, meaning an average speed of around 25 km/h.

***

I glanced at my watch — the HR had stabilised back to around 100. Time to pedal again. Before a single song finished playing, I was already at the highest point of the journey. Without expending much effort, the climb gave way to flat road, and shortly after, a steep descent.

The Magelang-Purworejo border sits on a hillside, making it extremely steep — a dramatic descent from Magelang or a punishing climb from Purworejo. This section spans several kilometres and has seen many incidents of heavy vehicles losing their brakes. Most recently, a group of women in a village transport vehicle was struck by an out-of-control truck — all passengers died on the spot. Shortly after that accident, another one occurred in the same area. As a provincial road, the Central Java provincial government has made no effort to install emergency runoff lanes at critical points. Despite being prohibited from using it, there’s no traffic police presence in the area. Law enforcement is extremely weak, with officers easily bribed — a common phenomenon, even though many vehicles are running over dimension and over load (ODOL).

This is precisely why I decided to stop briefly at the border arch when I heard the rumble of a diesel engine not far behind. Only after the convoy of heavy vehicles had passed did I continue coasting down to Kalijambe.

The Purworejo-Magelang road alternates between asphalt and concrete, then back to asphalt. The concrete sections are a pleasure to ride. The texture vibrates pleasantly through the handlebars, though in reality tyre grip is slightly reduced. The asphalt sections, in my opinion, are frustrating. Potholes at countless points, and wavy asphalt caused by overloaded trucks. I had to stay alert at all times to avoid being thrown off the road. Interestingly, all this damage occurs after the district boundary — predominantly on the Purworejo side.

The ride continued. The weather shifted from sunny to partly cloudy through to Purworejo city. Occasionally I passed other cyclists heading in the opposite direction — all sorts of bikes, from the MTBs favoured by middle-aged men, to old-school road bikes ridden by young people in matching jerseys. For some reason, I’ve never felt the urge to try cycling jerseys, especially since I haven’t found a design I like in any online store.

Arriving in Purworejo city, naturally I’d try a new eatery I hadn’t visited before. From many options, Bakmi Bandung 69 became my brief stop.

***

The journey continued despite the heat still darkening the back of my neck. I sipped from my bidon now and then to stay hydrated.

I also stopped at Purworejo’s town square — the largest in Central Java, which looked empty that day. Like any typical explorer, I photographed the Tambora against the iconic Purworejo city branding. For me, Purworejo’s branding has stuck in my memory because it’s been used consistently for years without change, regardless of which regent is in office.

From Purworejo to the Kulon Progo border took only about 90 minutes. Occasionally I passed East Java-plated intercity buses fond of reckless driving. Fortunately, this stretch of national road has some remnant ‘cycling lane’ in a few sections. The road is predominantly concrete, though the remaining asphalt sections are in terrible condition, like the one at Krendetan.

Before entering Kulon Progo, I made a detour to Wojo Station. I clearly remember that before Temon Airport had its own station, I once planned to reach the airport by transferring here, then continuing on the free shuttle. Just for the experience — but in the end I didn’t, choosing instead to have bakso in Kutoarjo.

The ride continued to Temon Airport. There, I tried to recreate a photo like Ronin’s, under the Dewi Sri statue that has become the airport’s iconic entrance. Quite ironic, since Dewi Sri symbolises prosperity, fertility, life, and welfare — values inherently tied to rice paddies. Yet the looming reality is land conversion driven by the airport city concept in Temon, which will convert hectare after hectare of rice fields in the area.

***

Heading toward Brosot, the weather started to cloud over. This time the sun couldn’t penetrate the thick atmosphere. Crosswinds repeatedly pushed me toward the roadside ditch. Suddenly I remembered a high school friend who lives not far from the route. Four hours had passed — time for some midday carbo loading.

“How’ve you been? Work going well?” I said, tearing strips of chicken and pressing them onto a clump of rice. The midday conversation was lively — until I accidentally nudged the bike computer that had been on standby.

Bibibibip, bibibibip. The monotone beep lit up the screen. Turns out I was exactly at kilometre 100 when I sat down for lunch. What a coincidence.

***

I slowed down in Bantul when dark clouds gathered to the north. It was clearly raining in the city, but I still had to keep pedalling. Sure enough, the city asphalt was wet, the characteristic sharp smell filling the air, with wisps of steam rising faintly.

It was late afternoon — time for prayer. Usually I’ll stop at any random musola or mosque, but this time, the old mosque in Kotabaru was my destination. Rather than being turned away for wearing cycling shorts above the knee,

“Looking for a sarong? There’s one upstairs. Just put your shoes in the rack, they’ll be safe.”

The mosque attendant directed me warmly. This is something I experience regularly when cycling in the Mataraman region. The people here tend to be moderate — they don’t attach stigma to how someone is dressed. If only other parts of this country had the same character.

I performed ablution and prayed. The rain was theirs — time for me to complete the final leg of the journey.

***

Full Speed, Hard Fall

The Sucen corner has always been my launching pad for speed. Whether on Jaka or Tambora, both handle beautifully at pace through Semen, Jumoyo, and on to Pabelan. I call this stretch the Muntilan sprint.

I accelerated down the Sucen descent toward the Semen junction. Fortunately, the lights had just turned green — I could maintain speed all the way to the Jumoyo junction. There too, the lights stayed consistently green, a perfect timing as I pedalled through.

Crossing the Jumoyo bridge, sand trucks began filling the road. They typically slow down and hug the centre-left, leaving space on the left. The right lane, of course, had motorcycles and cars taking turns asserting themselves — some flashing their high beams to force others aside. Typical Indonesian behaviour. Dry asphalt, ‘cycling lane’ available, I moved into the left side past the sand trucks blocking traffic.

My front wheel entered, I picked up speed. The width of what was actually an emergency shoulder was enough for acceleration.

Then suddenly, a large automatic motorcycle that had been about to overtake from the right veered left.

It struck the right rear of my bicycle.

Possibly the rear derailleur.

The bike lost control, the rear wheel lifted for a fraction of a second.

I wobbled.

On reflex, I unclipped my cleat shoes — which I’d only just gotten the hang of using that day — from the pedals.

Klak, klak.

The Tambora lurched to the right, dragged several metres.

And with surprising grace, I vaulted over the Tambora, launched into the air in the posture of a bull about to charge.

Waist at a perfect right angle.

Neck and head perfectly straight.

Unfortunately, there was a stack of poles piled up ahead, which I headbutted.

Brukkk.

My body collapsed at the road shoulder.

Second reflex: I got up immediately, to avoid being hit by vehicles from behind. My head was certainly dizzy and sore.

And the automatic motorcycle rider had fled, who knows where. Again, typical Indonesian behaviour — irresponsible.

***

Going into emergency mode, I assessed my body. Of all my limbs, only my knee had a minor scrape. The knock to my head did hurt a little, and now I was entering the golden time — observation mode: if vomiting or persistent dizziness followed, the ER would be my next destination.

Items in the vest? All safe.

The bike? Well, lots of scratches. But no matter — what matters is that I’m alive. The scratches will become stories later. That I was able to sustain an average speed of 32.4 km/h for nearly 10 minutes — which would have been even faster without the crash. As I recall, my top speed was 54 km/h before the accident.

After a short rest, I decided to down two bottles of mineral water. Turns out the clip on my helmet was gone — it had flown off when my head hit the poles, I realised.

Through sweat and aching pain, my legs began turning again. Pedalling slowly but steadily, heading home, through the cold and quiet midnight.