A morning with The Mosquito Coil Gang: off-road motorbiking in Singapore
By Toh Ee Ming
It’s an early Sunday morning. I’m at an industrial park whose location I can’t share, with a married couple in their 30s whose identities I can’t reveal. Let’s call them “Max” and “Claire”. After stashing away their dirt bikes for safekeeping in a motorbike workshop, Max passes me a helmet. I clamber onto the back of his bike and off we go. The roads are wide and gloriously empty, the cool breeze gentle on the skin, not a single soul in sight. Pure joy washes over me. En-route to a flyover, we spot some police walking around a car that has broken down in the middle of the road. I sense Max’s wariness. Their modified bikes, with off-road tyres and more powerful exhausts, may invite scrutiny from law enforcement.
“Heng ah,” Max laughs, after passing the scene. Twenty minutes later, we reach the periphery of a verdant, largely hidden forest. We ride into its depths through an unmarked trail, ascending hilly terrain. “Hang on tight,” warns Max.
This is when the real adventure begins.
The snarl of the engine throttle is so loud that I can barely hear anything. We narrowly dodge protruding tree branches and leaves. I see remnants of tiles on the ground, presumably from an old farming and fishing village. Just ahead, there’s a long stretch of mud pools. I hear Claire whooping gleefully as she races ahead, splashing through the puddles with abandon. Speeding through the forest with this band of rebels, I feel my blood pumping, heart racing, a surge of heady exhilaration. The forest is our playground, and I’ve never felt more alive.
Derived from the word ‘endurance’, hard enduro riding is considered one of the most brutal forms of motorcycling racing. It involves riding dirt bikes on challenging terrain, such as rocky hills and steep inclines. It tests one’s technical prowess, physical fitness, and mental toughness.
In the 1920s and 1930s, motorcycle manufacturers began producing bikes designed for off-road racing, with features like high-performance engines, rugged suspension systems, and lightweight frames. Over time, off-road racing evolved into a variety of disciplines, including motocross, enduro, and trials. In 1967, the world’s oldest hard enduro race was staged for the first time. Roof of Africa in Lesotho is still considered the “mother of hard enduro.” Meanwhile, many regard the Red Bull Romaniacs, an annual race in Sibiu, Romania, as the world’s toughest hard enduro rally. Another notable race, some say tougher still, is the Erzbergrodeo, also part of the Red Bull Hard Enduro series, in Austria. Set in a massive iron ore mine amongst towering mountains, it’s notorious for sending riders on a brutal ride up the quarry.
As hard enduro grew in popularity, the sport took off in various locations around the world, including Singapore. Enduro riding exists here in a legal grey zone. While it is legal to own an off-road bike here, the modifications needed for the enduro riders are not compliant with the Land Transport Authority’s regulations. In addition, there is no legal place to enjoy the sport because most forested areas here belong to the state. As such, a majority of off-road bike enthusiasts venture to nearby South-east Asian countries to ride. It’s highly likely that the authorities know about the riding that takes place in this forested area, but appear to have largely left the community alone.
When Max and Claire first obtained their motorbike licences, they didn’t know about enduro riding. They heard about it from friends made on motorcycle tours around Asia, in 2019. “When we first started, all the pros were too pro, so we made our own group,” says Max. Not “hardened jungle people” yet, they used to hang portable mosquito coils on their backpacks when they rode in the jungle. It earned them the nickname, “The Mosquito Coil Gang”. By the time I join them at their sacred space that Sunday, the enduro riders are no longer wearing coils.
Max is speeding along the “highway”, a main trail that connects different sections. We are on our way to one of several entrances, coined the “Bra Log”. Rumour has it, someone once found the titular article draped over a wooden log. The name stuck.
This is where we meet Chris, a member of the old guard who has been riding for four decades, and Faye, who got her motorbike licence a few weeks ago. “Mid-life crisis,” she jokes. (Only Max and Claire are pseudonyms; the other riders’ names are real.) We pass by a spot called “Pikachu”, named after an aluminium sign board depicting the cheery yellow mouse-like creature. Another point boasted an Electronic Road Pricing sign, but the motorbikers removed it after they noticed hikers taking photos of it.
Max reminisces about how he crashed a couple of times at Poke Romaniacs hill, whose name is a combination of Pokemon and the Red Bull Romaniacs. We reach another clearing, where we’re joined by Ben, a Taiwanese businessman, and Peifa, the founder of Instagram group Singapore Off-Roader. There are other groups waiting there too, poised and ready to go. Some riders exchange greetings, a wave here and there, as they pass through. Others thunder past at full throttle, one after another.
The six of us head off and take the Damian Loop, named after a biker called Damian who was said to have created a relatively easier circuit for newer riders. Rated as a “noob route” because of its flat terrain, it involves going over thick, exposed tree roots, past lush undergrowth and more of my personal favourite—mud pools.
These circuits may seem like chance explorations of a wild forest, although in reality they require a certain level of communal care. You want to ride here, you maintain the trail. This happens organically because a fierce sense of ownership—over public land—prevails. As one of the regular trail builders, Chris comes in during the weekdays for hours at a time, armed with a saw and clippers. He unzips his bag and shows me a Silky saw, “sharp enough to cut your arm off,” he jokes.
After a thunderstorm, he’s there to clear the trees that have collapsed in the downpour and block the path. Other times, he helps to design and create new trails, hacking through virgin jungle to carve out anything from a zigzag path to a U-turn. The only rule? You have to make sure a rider is able to clear the obstacle. “If you make a slope, and you push people to ride it, it will cause problems. People could fall, injure themselves,” he explains. “One person needs to do it first, then others can follow.” Trail builders tend to go with “guinea pigs”: “We’ll egg someone on, like a Master (pro rider), to try it.”
Chris, who grew up in Malaysia where he rode through pristine jungles, teaches me to observe the ground. Just like tree rings, you can tell the history of the place by the number of ruts on a slope—the deeper the ruts, the greater the number of riders who’ve played the slope. Part of the appeal is returning to always find new terrain, always something different.
Finally, the group decides to bring me to “watch a show” at Mega Mega, where riders try to clear a near-vertical hill. It’s also known to some as the “graduation spot”, the pinnacle of this circuit. I perch myself on a log, while the rest of the riders gather to get a good spot of the spectacle, smartphones ready. “You can do it!” one friend shouts encouragingly as a rider attempts to ride all the way up the slope at high speed. Just as the bike approaches the peak, it falters. “Oh no, you cannot do it!” the friend chokes back a laugh. But help is never far away.
The “show” is over when we sense a thunderstorm brewing overhead. It is time to go.
If you hang around long enough, you can spot adventurous mountain bikers, hikers, dog walkers, drone and remote control car enthusiasts co-existing in the same space, each with their own unique rules and ways of inhabiting. It makes me think of other fringe activities that have sprouted up organically across Singapore: including parkour-loving youths scaling roofs; drone and model aircraft hobbyists operating their machines without permits; secret gardens and a “Lost Ark” in the forests; and urban explorers who trespass in abandoned buildings. At some level, they seek the same thing—liminal spaces that offer a chance to relish a sense of freedom that can feel incongruent with a traditionally risk-averse and rule-obsessed society.
Enduro riding, because it’s a relatively expensive hobby that also skirts the law more than others, remains a niche and misunderstood sport in Singapore. Many associate it with hooliganism, biker gangs, lawlessness, and reckless speeding. The riders say Facebook groups like SG Road Vigilante are a cesspit of negativity when videos of the bikers are circulated. Some critics have called for their bikes to be “incinerated”, because they apparently endanger public safety. The bikers, by contrast, believe that the sport doesn’t affect anyone else. Still, some have had to conceal this secret double life from their family, employers and colleagues for years, for fear of jeopardising their careers or inviting judgement.
Many riders tend to plunge into the world of off-roading, one of the most physically demanding sports, with barely any guidance or safety gear. By underestimating the risks, they end up picking up bad habits, sustaining serious injuries or completely leaving the sport. In places with a more mature enduro riding scene, such as Europe, China, Korea, Malaysia and Thailand, there is greater recognition of the sport. Along with that comes efforts to craft a more structured curriculum, such as BMW’s Off Road Skills, Touratech’s Off Road Training and the KTM Riders Academy. Students learn everything from the basics of body positioning, to how to properly sit and stand, make turns on loose surfaces, pick up a fallen bike, traverse obstacles, and more. In Singapore, there are no formal programmes. Riders organise small-group drill sessions: balancing on a static bike, for instance, or turning in a figure eight. “We suffer suffer suffer, but then we got good, so now we don’t suffer as much. But everyone still has to suffer one,” says Max with a rueful grin.
Misconceptions about enduro bikers exist even within the motorbiking community. Big adventure bike riders may have the impression that enduro riders have an easier time on more lightweight and therefore more manageable bikes, but it’s not always easy to make a direct comparison because of the different activities or terrains that each group is interested in.
Some have dabbled in off-road riding but felt it was too much of a hassle. Says Dave, a rider and astrologer: “It might be more fun overseas because there are off-road bike rentals in Malaysia and you get to see scenery…But for lazy people like me, there’s nowhere to ride officially in Singapore. If a friend lends me their bike, there is unnecessary stress to not drop or damage the bike. It’s very physically draining if you keep falling and have to pick the bike up, and the clean up after is not fun!”
On that Sunday, after we are done with our ride, we gather at a nearby coffee shop on the outskirts of an industrial park. It’s a regular haunt for the off-road biking community. The staff are accustomed to the mud and dirt trails on the floor. The bikers spread across a few tables, kick back and tuck into a hearty lunch.
Before the internet, it was much harder for a community like this to form. But today, all one has to do is “hit a few dozen keywords” and there’s a wealth of information at your fingertips, observes Chris. As a result, he’s witnessed an emergence of younger riders who are getting into the sport. Ben heard about this place through word-of-mouth. He now visits every week, when he’s not away on business trips. He enjoys the challenge of the sport and being able to overcome psychological barriers: “Everyone is able to do it, but sometimes they’re intimidated by unfamiliar ground.”
Faye, meanwhile, dreams of one day being able to ride solo in Ladakh, India. Known as the Land of High Passes, the territory offers an experience akin to a roller-coaster bike ride, through scenic vistas of rugged landscapes, mountains roads, snow-clad mountains, Buddhist monasteries, Himalayan lakes, and open skies. But Faye has a long way to go, as she’s still familiarising herself with the basics—and, like other beginners, has fallen many times. Despite the varying abilities of The Mosquito Group’s members, they find it more fun to ride together because of the greater sense of camaraderie. Most genres of motorbike riding are more solitary activities, like motorcycle touring and track racing. But part of the appeal of enduro riding is the fact that it’s such a communal experience.
“In track racing, you do your own laps and when you go back to your pitstop, that’s generally the only time you mingle with other friends,” explains Max. “The same goes for touring. You have your intercom and you can talk to each other, but generally you’re by yourself for hours at a time. With enduro riding,” he adds, “you travel from point A to point B in a group. You help each other pick up their fallen bikes endlessly. And when your friends get stuck, you wait for them and encourage each other during the technical sections.”
It’s this “leave no person behind” mentality that brings about such a tightly knit “dedicated community of delinquents.” Outside of Singapore, Max and Claire also regularly go touring and enduro riding in Malaysia and participate in the occasional race, like the Rimba Raid: venturing through leech-infested forests and waterfalls, riding across sand banks and river crossings, and camping under the stars.
Such spaces simply don’t exist here. Indeed, away from the high-rise Housing and Development Board flats and bustling traffic, this forest is one of the few green areas left untamed, which offers a rare corner on this island where the off-road motorbiking community can practise. But, it’s been earmarked for residential development. As more forests vanish, we’ve been schooled to accept the inevitable, depressing fact that we have to give up our forests for homes. You can always go to Malaysia, yes, but shouldn’t there be room for spaces in our own backyard? Spaces to breathe easy, to run amok, to stamp our own mark on them.
Peifa, whose day job is in the hardware and materials handling industry, feels acutely the pressure of preserving the space. He founded Singapore Off-Roader to document the riding community’s shared memories, “together in off-the-beaten trails, so that we can laugh, talk and reminisce about the good old times in the distant future.” Once, as we are chatting, Peifa exclaims that Graham Jarvis, decorated extreme enduro rider of all time, has responded to him on Instagram. There is a ripple of excitement in the group. Peifa had asked Jarvis, who has 1.2m Instagram followers, to follow his page. “I’m trying to tempt him to come to Singapore, but I don’t think he will,” he shrugs.
Still, it’s unlikely that such international outreach can really assuage the losses that The Mosquito Coil Gang members have experienced. Some of them used to ride in Tanah Merah, a forested area along Tanah Merah Road. The riders would enter via an opening near the canal. The area offered flat trails for high speed riding as well as a sand pit trail. It was later closed off to make way for the new Changi Terminal 5. Peifa remembers them wanting to make their very last ride around Tanah Merah, but upon arrival, the area had already been flattened. “We were very sian,” he recalls. Afterwards, most of the off-road motorbike enthusiast community shifted their base here. Today, this forest space remains the last stronghold for the riders, and all the more precious to protect. But it still has a very different vibe, as it comprises more technical sections and steep climbs, compared with the more forgiving sand banks at the old site, says Peifa.
Recently, they spotted a tunnel boring machine in the area. The area has also been shrinking, as more areas are getting fenced up. There’s the perennial fear that the site’s final days will arrive sooner than they think. As is common ahead of other erasures of space in Singapore, the community has started to think about how to preserve its memories, if not its actual site. Peifa’s “crazy plan” is to make a documentary to showcase memories of the space. He also wants to drive a pick-up truck, pillion three bikes, and drive the riders from Singapore all the way to Romania to participate in the Red Bull Romaniacs. As they pass through Malaysia, India, Pakistan and Iran, the plan is to train the local community on off-road riding too. He’s looking to raise S$200,000 to fund this dream, including the sponsorship of local riders.
There’s also an unrealised wish to conduct small-group tours in this forest space, an idea sparked by a late rider and a passionate creative. The tour would centre on the motif of soil, which speaks to themes of off-road riding, home and identity and Singapore’s constant redevelopment. “He wanted to convey all these different feelings of loss…And to show the public that there is this tight-knit community with memories that have been scorched so deeply here in this soil,” says Claire. But they were unsure how to do it responsibly without endangering the space, and the idea was shelved.
On my second visit with the riders, I gatecrash a surprise birthday celebration for Caleb, a burly 41-year-old defence consultant whose work spans getting involved in secret military exercises, pursuing drug syndicates around Asia, spending nights away in the deep jungles of South-east Asia to root out rebels, and visiting remote islands to provide timely surveillance information.
The self-professed clown and “horniest person” of the group, Caleb often cracks inappropriate jokes of schoolboy humour. He says that he’s pleasantly distracted by seeing female hikers dressed in Lululemon in the forest space, and jokes that his main aim was to “lose his wife” during a 10-day bike trip in the Himalayas. I listen in on a conversation about Dutch YouTuber and motorcycle adventurer Noraly Schoenmaker, more famously known as “Itchy Boots”. “So what are you, Itchy Backside?” he jokes with a female biker.
Recounting one of his most recent harrowing experiences, he describes riding through the forest when a thick vine snared his neck and he was left hanging some three metres above ground like a pontianak. He pulls out his phone to show me photos of the thick red welts across his neck: “I thought, gone case. It’s either my neck or the vine has to go.”
With such experiences, it’s no wonder that the return back to civilisation feels like a jolt to the system. “On a regular day, you’re sitting in front of your computer, multitasking and it gets very distracting. But inside here, you just focus on the present. You feel a state of flow,” says Claire. As Peifa puts it, “Riding on the road, all you see is tarmac. But for us, doing off-road is very magical. It’s the sense that you can go anywhere, that you appreciate the scenery. It just doesn’t feel like Singapore…It’s just very shiok.”
Whenever the riders return to urban living, back to the rat race and the mundanity of corporate drudgery, the thought of enduro riding conjures a deep longing for boundless open skies, a careening sense of freedom, steadfast friendships forged through the ups and downs of the trails, and a hunger for new discoveries and adventures to tell.
Link to article here.
