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Covid-19 has been all about distances: social of one to two meters, the Coronavirus’ projected four-meter airborne span, global affliction of economies to last more than a year.

In France, you can exercise within a radius of two kilometers of your home, but you can’t cycle anywhere in the country of the Tour de France, of sprawling scenic Alps, of rolling wine country, of breathtaking Mediterranean coastline. In 50 kilometer x 27 kilometer Singapore, much of road cycling, outside of parks, is contained within city roads, atmospheric pre-World War II shophouse streets, pleasant but innocuous suburbs. If you don’t need to arrive at your destination completely unravaged by humidity and have passable helmet hair, cycle commuting is a very decent way to get around, considering cycling takes only about 10 more minutes than driving.

I am a devotee of routine but the endless possibilities of empty streets salved the sting of going a month without my daily morning shot of F45 HIIT, resistance and strength training. Where would I go on two wheels and two legs?

Covid-19 taketh, and Covid-19 giveth. Armed with boxes of masks I had helped friends and family order, I started devising scenic routes and loops to deliver these masks on bike mornings, with a goal of covering at least 30 kilometers each ride. On Monday, I pedaled almost the height of the island to Seletar in the north, capped with the gently rolling knolls of this former colonial British military airbase. After mostly traversing up hardworking Paya Lebar Road - edges of industrial parks, old-fashioned bakeries, gas stations, car repair shops, churches, temples, HDB estates - Bruce III and I flew through the chute of functional thoroughfare into a burst of bucolic. Lush, verdant tropical fauna enveloped us like Hansel and Gretel into the gingerbread house. But instead of bread crumbs, we got Elaine’s homemade spelt sourdough for our efforts. By the time we were back on the real road, I felt loose as we cruised, and whistled some Abba, soothed by pastoral populism.

This morning, I made two deliveries, first to Irene, who lives in the nostalgic Whampoa estate full of generations-old mom-and-pop shops. She lives above a typical Singapore confectionery with shelves lined with multitudes of breads and buns humble in architecture (mostly soft and white, unless food-colored to accordingly signify flavors like chocolate, blueberry, pandan), fantastical in fillings - cream cheese with coconut, chicken curry, sweet red beans, pork floss and butter. It’s called Glad Tiding - I had to bring some to my second stop.

I pulled up to my aunt’s house with the intention to contactlessly leave their masks on the gate, but my 89-year-old grandma was circumambulating their garden, in lieu of her morning walk around their hilly neighborhood. I called out to her, and she came down the driveway, saw me damp with sweat, and wanted me to go in to wipe myself down.

“Popo, I can’t go in,” I said, a bit helpless, a little sad. It’s weird not to give your grandma a hug and a kiss when you see her. Popo’s still a very smart and sharp cookie, so I didn’t need to explain, but the improbable plausibility of everyone’s current situation gave her a few moments of pause.

And then she said, as any real grandma would, with the same practicality and bootstrap-yanking that helped her single-handedly raise four children while working three jobs:

“Then quickly get home, wash up, and go help Daddy at the shop.”