Waffles & Steel wanted to end 2009 with something upbeat or just plain funny. We’ve reported a steady stream of negative news lately and feel bad about it. There are plenty of positive things going on in China and they shouldn’t be neglected. But when we opened the Guangzhou Daily this morning, our eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to a story about a “mian bao che” (or “bread van”) running a red light yesterday, skidding through a cross walk and hitting four elementary school kids and three adults:
Graphic produced by the Guangzhou Daily.
We decided to write about this accident because it’s extremely important for cyclists to be aware of how dangerous these vehicles are on Chinese roads. We simply can’t point this out enough. We’ve written about them a couple times before, and one of the vans even had a cameo in this week’s gawker-stalker drama.
They’re called “bread vans” because they’re shaped like a small loaf of bread – the spongy, flavorless, mass-produced kind popular in Chinese bakeries and American trailer parks. We often refer to them as micro vans because they’re about 20 percent smaller than a mini van.
Is he brave or foolish to be riding in front of a bread van - even a parked one? It may be a new tactic - pretend you're parked, then lurch forward.
We suspect they’re the favorite means of delivery transport for dodgy sweatshop bosses because they’re cheap. About 90 percent of them seem to be painted a dusty silver or gray. We have no idea why. Perhaps the color makes them harder to see and helps them escape the scene of a hit and run better. It’s the perfect camoflage for the new urban China of concrete and steel.
The driver is usually steering with his knee on the wheel because one hand has a cigarette and the other is gripping a mobile phone he’s using to have an argument with his wife back in Hunan, who hasn’t seen him in three years. He usually rides with an evil sidekick who behaves much like the shrill, cackling creature who sat at the base of Jabba the Hut in “Return of the Jedi.” This guy laughs in your ear and yells “haaalllllooooo!” as the micro van buzzes by you, or he bounces in his seat with glee as the driver sits on your rear wheel through a dimly lit tunnel honking his horn the entire time. The bread trucks are always in a hurry, always looking for a traffic law to break. We hate them.
Oh, those rebellious micro van drivers. Guess what the sign with the big red characters says. Yup, "Parking prohibited."
Yesterday’s accident happened about noon on a busy street near Guangzhou’s financial district, according to the newspaper report. After hitting the seven people, the van continued on for 10 meters before stopping. The report says the driver’s face was white with shock when he got out of the van. One of the witnesses asked the driver why he plowed into the people, but the reporter doesn’t say how or whether the driver answered the question. One of the passengers in the van said that the brakes had apparently failed. The 25-year-old driver, only identified by his surname, Chen, was in police custody as the authorities investigate the incident.
OK, some good news. Everyone survived the accident without life-threatening injuries. Let’s hope for a safer 2010! Everyone be careful out there!
But wait, before you go, some more photos:
We're not sure if this van delivered this slaughtered pig, which was parked in the gutter for 10 minutes as it got marinated with car splatter and smoked with exhaust fumes.
We figured everyone would want a close-up shot of Wilber.
A few possible explanations about what might have been going on with the stalk-and-gawk incident reported yesterday:
1. The guy might have been mentally challenged or deranged. The cyclist said the guy kept looking at him with a weird grin, and he was dressed like a regular motorcycle taxi dude: yellow plastic helmet, cheap insulated jacket, loafers.
2. Maybe he was just bored and intrigued. If we came across an exotic animal in the forest, many of us would try to observe it as long as we could. If the creature moved to another spot, we’d go with it to watch it some more. I’ve felt like such a creature so many times in China. And shameless staring is a popular hobby here. It often annoys me, but I try not to hold it against people. A foreigner – especially a Caucasian with a big nose, fair skin and lightly colored hair – does look weird and exotic, especially to folks in rural areas.
3. He might have been a thug who felt like the cyclist challenged or snubbed him by trying to out ride him. One popular perception of China (especially overseas) is that it is a safe, stable monolithic Communist state. It’s actually a huge, complex, sprawling country that the Communist Party – though still mighty – struggles to govern. There are numerous places ruled by power syndicates – corrupt officials in cahoots with gangster businessmen, or “black societies” in the local lingo. It’s possible that the cyclist was heading in the direction of a new meth lab or chop shop, and the thug on the motorbike was making sure the foreigner didn’t get too close.
Anyway, it’s all speculation and probably a waste of time.
For me, the story is another reminder of how China has changed. In the 80s and most of the 90s, foreigners – especially Westerners – were protected by an invisible force field. Few Chinese in their right minds would attack a foreigner because they knew they would be punished severely. We were generally off limits. But as China has grown wealthier, more powerful and less centralized (and the foreign population has exploded and become less special), more people think they can get away with messing with us.
A couple years ago, I was on an early morning ride with a friend in Guangzhou. We were on an empty three-lane boulevard when a black VW Passat came roaring up from behind honking its horn. The car pulled up alongside us just long enough for us to see the driver: a beefy guy with a crew cut – a hairstyle favored by policemen, military officers and gangsters. Then the guy made a sharp left turn into our path, an obvious attempt to knock us down. Luckily,we were able to stay upright. Such unprovoked aggression and violent behavior against a foreigner would have been extremely rare in the old days.
Back to the gawker-stalker. I think the cyclist played it right. When you must make a fight-or-flight decision, it’s best to go with the latter in China. Some have suggested the rider should start packing some pepper spray or a small club. The danger is that whipping out a weapon can cause things to escalate quickly. If things get violent, I think it’s best to limit it to a fist fight. Also, if the police arrive, and the foreigner is the only one wielding a weapon, the police will be even less sympathetic to the foreigner. If the expat injures the local with weapon, the expat should expect to pay a hefty medical bill. Again, think back to the crash-and-punch drama.
Check out this bizarre anecdote from a strong expat rider who also happens to be a great guy, a model citizen on China’s roads. Frankly, I don’t know what to make of it, but I do have a few thoughts and theories that I plan to share in my next post. This incident has provoked a discussion among some of the Guangzhou expat riders about whether it’s wise to carry some kind of a weapon for self defense.
The tale:
“Here is a quick story about my bike ride after work Monday near my factory. I was doing my normal route, a 35-kilometer out-and-back ride with some climbs. Today (like many days), I tried to race the numerous motorbikes on the road. Usually when I hear one coming, I’ll try to jump into its slipstream or see how long I can hold it off.
I heard one approaching, so I imagined myself hammering up the Mur de Huy. I held off the guy until the top of the little incline I was climbing. I slowed a bit but since he wasn’t passing, I decided to try and push it for a little longer to see how long I could stay in front.
After about 3 kilometers of this, my mental cycling fantasies grew tired along with my quads, and I wanted him to pass me. I slowed to a crawl on the next hill, but he just kept drafting about 7 inches off my wheel. My route starts out going through a couple of towns, but at this point, it was getting more remote, and I was about to take the left turn up the final big climb. The guy turned with me, which was strange because only bamboo loggers really go back there. I again slowed to a crawl on the first incline hoping he would come around. No chance.
He pulled up alongside me for a second, and I glimpsed his license plate. I tried to make small talk with my pathetic Chinese, but the chubby little guy didn’t want to make conversation. The incline increased and I had about 4 more kilometers until the top of my usual turnaround. I slowed to a syrup-like 8 kph to see what he would do, but he just kept riding behind me. About 2 kilometers from the top, I saw a baseball bat-sized bamboo stick and I grabbed it. I pulled over and unclipped. He rode up about 5 inches from me, turned off his motorbike and sat there looking at me.
Some quick background on riding in China: It is common for people to follow you for 1 kilometer or so because it is unique to see a Caucasian in Lycra riding a skinny-tired bike. That I understand. They usually want to chat you up, asking ‘How much is that bike?’ or ‘Where are you from?’ Then there is the usual obligatory tire squeeze and frame flick.
But this guy had been following me for 12 kilometers, about 35 minutes. Again, I tried the usual small talk, chit chatting about how beautiful the mountains are. I asked him where he was going. All I could get was a few murmurs. I then decided it was a good idea to get my phone out and text the dude’s license plate number to a friend at my factory as well as to my wife. I also tried to call my spouse to explain my cryptic text but she didn’t answer. I pocketed my Blackberry and quickly glanced at the guy, the bamboo club and my bike. I told him I was tired and I would go home now. He gave me a second grunt.
I clipped in and went wide around him. I shifted to the big ring and glanced back to see what he was doing. I did know there is a tiny logging shanty village further up and it may have been possible he was going home. But nope, he was doing a K turn to follow me back down.
I decided it was time to descend like Sammy Sanchez with a death wish. I was pushing 50 kph on narrow, twisty roads wide enough for only a car and maybe a few extra feet. There was zero visibility around the corners. On the flats and the three mild uphill sections on the way back, I was pushing 35-40 kph and could hear my heart in my head. I was able to pass two blue pick-ups, one BMW, and two motor bikes on the way down. More importantly I avoided a silver mini bus of death that was coming at me head on. Those who ride in China know exactly what I mean.
The guy never caught me, and I was able to avoid some weird international incident. I’m not sure if it would have ended up like ‘Misery,’ ‘Fight Club’ or ‘Deliverance.’”
On Mondays, I usually like to provide a colorful, action-packed report about my weekend rides. But I don’t have much to offer today. That’s partly because I did a long report immediately after my ride on Saturday. I certainly don’t feel like revisiting that issue. I also don’t have much to report because I decided to stay off the roads on Sunday.
On Saturday night, I was sitting up in bed thinking about my ride the next day. Usually, I look forward to it with eager anticipation. I love the feeling of being outdoors, exploring the city, meeting up with new and old riding friends, shredding every muscle fiber in my legs, drinking a hot coffee and eating a nice lunch afterwards, crashing out on the sofa, enjoying a cold Leffe sundowner.
But this time, I was filled with dread as I thought about the ride. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I had that awful feeling that something bad was going to happen. I often tell myself that I rarely crash because I’m a decent bike handler and I’m a master at reading the danger on Chinese roads. But I guess Saturday’s incident dented my confidence. It made me face up to the reality that in many ways, I’m helpless against idiot drivers. My skills and expertise only provide a certain amount of protection.
It must be nice to be a golfer. All you need to worry about is lightning and getting clocked in the head by your golf club-wielding supermodel wife.
When I start thinking like this, I become superstitious and fatalistic. I start thinking that my luck can only last so long and that I’ve had so many close calls already that my number is bound to come up soon. This is what was going through my mind over and over on Saturday night. I couldn’t get to sleep, and I finally canceled the ride, went out to the living room and stayed up past midnight watching a National Geographic documentary about how the Nazis looted art museums throughout Europe.
On Sunday, I slept in and had a couple cups of coffee with Nutella on toast. I didn’t feel guilty about missing the ride. I really needed to take a break from the roads. In the afternoon, I did a 30-minute session on the rollers and lifted some weights. I’ll keep riding the rollers the rest of the week, and I’m sure in a few days, I’ll be itching to get back on the streets again.
I want to apologize for this gloomy, whinny post. I hope I can make up for it by sharing a few pictures of the live monkey show that was going on outside my office building when I went to work this morning.
I wish I would have shot from a lower position so that I could have shown the massive crowd that gathered. I had my hands full with my work bag, newspapers and a couple bottles of mineral water. Part of the guy’s schtick was to smack the big monkey on the head, and the animal would immediately slap him back. The crowd thought that was hilarious.
It was definitely a low-budget show. One of the monkeys wore a hat crafted out of the top of a plastic drink bottle. He would occasionally take it off and fling it into the street.
I’m starting to get the feeling that the pathetic monkey show will just add to the sense of gloom in this post.
Today, Waffles & Steel is introducing a new feature: the quote of the week from “A Sunday in Hell,” directed by the brilliant Jorgen Leth. I believe it’s the best film ever made about cycling and, arguably, about sports in general. It has fueled my passion for cycling for decades. Lines from the film go through my head during long rides. One thing I hate is the reduction of sport to numbers, statistics, power meter readings. “A Sunday in Hell” captures what cycling is all about: the beauty, poetry, anguish, drama, heartbreak and heroism. It also best explains why I try to ride like a “Belgian hardman.”
The film is about the 1976 version of the legendary Paris-Roubaix race. This week’s “quote of the week” describes what’s so special about the event. This bit of narration is preceded with the ominous pounding of drums. The screen fills up with black-and-white file footage of riders with mud-splattered faces twisted in agony as they grit their teeth and try to ride over slippery cobble stones covered in mud and livestock feces. Some crash to the ground and struggle to get up as others fail to steer around them and fall hard, too. Some men give up and haul their bikes over their shoulders and run along the deeply rutted road. Team cars roar past them trying to catch the leaders, who will inevitably suffer numerous flats.
Finally, the quote (delivered in a dry, matter-of-fact British accent):
“What gives Paris-Roubaix its reputation as the hardest and most fascinating of all classic one-day races is the drama that always accompanies the last part of the course, over the infamous l’enfer du Nord, or ‘Hell of the North.’ This hell consists of some primitive, narrow country roads with centuries-old cobble stones, roads no longer used for ordinary, civilized “What gives Paris-Roubaix its reputation as the hardest and most fascinating of all classic one-day races is the drama that always accompanies the last part of the course, over the infamous l’enfer du Nord, or ‘Hell of the North.’ This hell consists of some primitive, narrow country roads with centuries-old cobble stones, roads no longer used for ordinary, civilized traffic, but only for the driving of cattle – and for a bicycle race, a truly legendary course. Year after year, this hell is the setting for a veritable Dante’s Inferno, with incredible tortures and even martyrdom. Sometimes the roadside is transformed into a quagmire and the cobblestones into a skating rink. This hell has become the home ground of Flemish supermen, an exclusive affair only for the strongest. ”
I was lucky to avoid what could have been a nasty crash with a car today. Unfortunately, the incident ended with a heated exchange with the driver that almost turned violent.
I was riding around the 16-kilometer loop in Guangzhou’s university district. It’s probably the safest place to ride in the city because the road is pretty new, wide and the traffic is extremely light. I was descending a slight hill at 36 kph in the right lane when a silver sedan in the middle lane pulled up beside me. The driver was there for a second before he cut me off with a sharp right turn across my path and into the entrance of a parking lot.
It’s a classic move in China. Drivers prefer swerving to merging. They’ll wait until the last second to make a turn. It doesn’t matter which lane they’re in. This guy was in the middle lane. Instead of turning into the right lane to make his right-hand turn into the parking lot, he stayed in his lane and launched into his hard right turn from the middle of the road. I see this happen everyday, and I’ve developed a habit of checking over my left shoulder for swerving cars whenever I approach an intersection or righthand turnoff of some sort.
As the once-open road in front of me quickly became the side of a car, I immediately went into red-alarm evasive maneuver mode. Crashes and near misses always seem to happen in slow motion. It seemed to take forever to miss slamming into that car. I grabbed a handful of brakes, and my back wheel locked up and started doing the sidewinder thing. I could hear my tire skidding and going, “Ziiizzzzzzzz.” Then I tried to turn as hard as I could without ditching my bike so that I was as parallel as possible to the car’s door. When the driver finally slammed on his brakes, my thigh was just a centimeter from the side of the car.
The driver was a bespectacled middle-aged guy who looked like he could be an upper mid-level government official or possibly a university administrator with a big enough salary (and kickback racket) to buy a new car. He had a Bruce Lee-style hairdo, not a buzz cut favored by the police, military and gangster thugs. His wife was in the passenger seat, and the couple just stared at me. They seemed to be hoping I’d just ride away. Well, not bloody likely.
I flipped out, launched into a tirade. I yelled in Chinese, “You nearly killed me! What were you thinking? Why did you think you could cut me off like that? Didn’t you see me? You really need to learn how to drive! You nearly killed me!” The wife rolled down the window and said, “Sorry,” as her husband continued to stare straight ahead as if I weren’t there. Usually, I’d just let it go, but a little voice in my head said, “Ask them again what the hell they were thinking. This might be one of the best chances to get someone to explain why they do those radical lane-changing turns.” So I asked again what they were thinking. Again, the woman apologized and the man just looked straight ahead and ignored me.
Then I said to the man in English, “Fucking asshole.” (I know, I deserve a yellow card for that one.) That got his attention. His eyes bugged out and I heard him mutter, “Fucking asshole?” He yelled at me, “Ni zai ma wo ma?” This roughly translates as, “Are you cursing at me?” It usually means that a dispute is escalating. Things are getting serious. The Chinese side is starting to get super pissed. I yelled back at him, “You’re damned right I’m cursing at you! You nearly killed me!” He threw off his seat belt, opened his door and started scooching sideways out of his seat when his wife grabbed his shoulders and wouldn’t let him get out of the car. I was done venting, so I clipped back into my pedals and started to roll on. I would have liked to have had a piece of the guy, but the “Crash and Punch” saga (see the posts from a couple weeks ago) was still fresh in my mind, and I know that foreigners rarely come out ahead when things get violent.
The next section of this story will be told in “Rashomon” style – borrowed from the classic Japanese film by Akira Kurosawa that describes a heinous crime from the viewpoints of several different people. I’ll do my best with the Chinese viewpoint. I was an expert about all things Chinese when I first arrived in the country, but now – 21 years later – I describe myself as a fourth-rate Sinologist who’s constantly perplexed and embarrassed daily by his ignorance. So this might be far off the mark.
The Chinese driver: “I felt bad about almost decking the foreigner on the bicycle. Afterwards, I wasn’t really ignoring him, and I really wanted to say sorry or something. But you see, my careless driving caused me to lose face in front of my wife and the foreigner. Losing face is extremely painful. I just wanted the situation to end. Nobody was hurt. It wasn’t that big of a deal actually. But yet, the childish foreigner insisted on jumping up and down on my face as it lay on the ground in a bloody, fleshy pile. In front of my wife, he kicked it and stomped on it. I lost face and he kept rubbing it in. I did my best to keep my cool and preserve my dignity by looking straight ahead, but then the barbaric, uncouth foreigner had to hurl the nasty insult in English at me – in front of my wife. This was intolerable. He went way too far. The arrogant, uppity foreigner needed to get his ass kicked.”
My point of view: “If a driver makes a boneheaded decision that nearly kills me, I have the right to vent. And the knucklehead driver is obligated to just take it for a couple minutes. My venting time will be sharply reduced if the driver apologizes. Just a simple apology will do, like: ‘Jeez, I’m sorry about that, and I’ll be more careful in the future. Are you OK? Awesome bike handling, by the way!’ That would have calmed me down and given the matter some closure. But I got nothing. The guy just ignored me. He wouldn’t fess up to his mistake. He wouldn’t even look at me. Making matters worse, he had his wife do all the apologizing (a phenomenon also described in the “Crash and Punch” saga). He wasn’t man enough to do it on his own. In my culture, a man must clean up his own messes. This guy was a coward, a wussy worthy of my contempt. He was a fucking asshole.”
It’s fascinating how different cultural cues can set us off.
As I pedaled away up a short hill, the couple sat in their car for 30 seconds before driving after me at a slow speed. I moved over into the far left lane so that I could speak directly with the guy if he still wanted to have words with me. He stayed on my wheel for a minute, and I reached back into my jersey pocket to make sure I could quickly grab my frame pump if I needed a weapon. I waited for him to bump me from behind or cut me off again. I looked back and waved my arm at him, motioning him to drive on and leave me alone. He pulled up alongside me and just scowled at me. His wife yelled again, “We said we’re sorry.” I replied, “OK, thanks. Please drive on.” But he kept driving next to me, bullying me from the safety of his big metal vehicle. Finally, I thought a bit of annoying chatter might move him on, so I said to him, “You really need to be more careful. Maybe you should take some more driving lessons. Do you even have a driver’s license? Can I see it?”
His face started to turn red, and he seemed to be fishing around for a final insult. Finally, he looked at me and said in English, “Shut up! Fuck you!” I just smiled, laughed and rode away. He caught up to me again, and this time he drove past without incident. I tried to snap a photo of him but my camera wasn’t fast enough.
I’m happy that I let him have the last words. I hope it helped him salvage some lost face.
He drives away ... finally.
I had planned to ride for 100 kilometers but I cut things short at 65. I just wanted to be off Chinese roads. And everytime a car approached from behind, I had to shoulder check to make sure it wasn’t the guy. That gets tiresome fast. On the way home, I thought about the lessons learned. I don’t feel bad about venting. It’s natural when you have anger and adrenaline coursing through all your veins. But next time, after I’m done venting, I’ll just say, “No worries. I was just pissed. Sorry about blowing my top.”
This photo says so much about China. It captures the whimsical and raw nature of the place. The mystery (who wrote “Christmas” and why?). The rough practicality (I love the extra seat welded to the top tube). It looks bleak and a bit ominous (the battered windows, metal security gate and the U-lock on the wheel), but the awareness of Christmas adds a sense of worldliness, hope, possible change.
Mike Livingston wins the Waffles & Steel Christmas photo contest for providing this compelling image.
The runner-up pic was sent in by Dean and Chris Tremaine in balmy Canada. Again, bleak but signs of hope:
I woke up to a brilliantly sunny, warm day with a rare blue sky, so I decided to go out for a 65-kilometer ride. It was the first one I’ve done in about a week since I got bogged down with holiday duties and injured my shoulder. I hit the road at 8:30 a.m., during the worst crunch of rush hour. Traffic was insane and I spent the first five kilometers dodging city buses and weaving in and out of cars and trucks. I wasn’t alone, though. I was riding with – sometimes racing against – the pig-slop guy.
You can see these guys everywhere. They pedal or ride motorized three-wheel carts with one or two big blue barrels in the back full of food waste. They usually stay in the right lane and just putter along. But this guy was riding aggressively, doing radical lane changes and darting through holes in the traffic. Finally, he pulled over to get some gas.
The pig slop guys collect their leftovers at restaurants, and I guess they drop it off at a central collection point, where it gets taken to hog farms. I have no idea what the waste sells for. But it can look really nasty – a mushy, gloppy, oily stew of cabbage, noodles, chicken bones, rice. You never want to ride too close to the pig slop barrel. You need to beware of splash back. The barrels are usually really full:
Sometimes the scenes I see on Chinese roads seem Felliniesque, just fantastical and surreal. Sometimes they have more of a David Lynch quality. I’m not sure how I would characterize this situation.
It’s a young couple with their granny. Their battered micro van has broken down. People rarely use their hazard lights in China. It seems these folks are using the wicker basket cage of chickens and the grandmother to warn approaching vehicles to drive around them. Granny had her hair braided in a delicate little pig tail, but I forgot to photograph it.
Or maybe they’re just giving the chickens some air. Granny wouldn’t talk to me.
Another regular on the roads: the sugar cane dealers. You can buy a foot-long section of sugar cane, and they’ll slice away all the bark for you so that you can sit on the side of the road biting off chunks of cane, chewing it and spitting out the leftover indigestible fibrous parts on the road. It’s nature’s candy bar, though a messy one.
This photo was featured on Freeman. The site – one of my favorites because of the fine writing and stunning photography – adds some wonderful analysis about what the image tells us about the French and being American. Definitely worth checking out.
I can’t believe I injured myself … while shopping! Yes, it’s embarrassing. It was the result of another one of my ill-fated attempts to do it all: work, family, cycling…
I decided to try to get all my Christmas shopping done in a one-day whirlwind trip to Hong Kong. That’s where we go to buy most of our clothes, electronics, bike gear, etc. The prices and selection are better and, most importantly, you can be pretty sure that what you’re buying is real. Also, it’s just a two-hour train ride away.
I left the house at 8 a.m. on Saturday and returned home exhausted and frazzled about 11 p.m. with all of the gifts on my list. The problem was that I spent the entire day lugging around all the presents. I put the heaviest ones in a gaudy plaid nylon weave “China bag” – the ones migrant workers love to use because they’re dirt cheap and super strong. But one of the biggest drawbacks is that the thin strap handle cuts into your hands or, in my case, shoulders. I didn’t realize how much damage I had done until I woke up in the middle of the night with sharp pains in my left shoulder – the one that did most of the bag-carrying duty. The pain continued through Sunday. To be sure, the injury wasn’t completely caused by the shopping trip. Some of the damage was done during a weight-lifting workout Thursday that involved some overhead presses – something I haven’t done in ages. The shoulders were a tad bit sore before the weekend and the shopping trip struck the final blow.
The reason why I decided to do the shopping blitzkrieg was that I wanted to be back in Guangzhou on Sunday for a long ride. The plan sure looked great on paper.
But with clarity of hindsight, it’s obvious that my shoulder would have been much better off if I had stretched out my Hong Kong excursion to two days. I should have reserved a hotel room, where I could have stashed some of my bags in the middle of the afternoon to take some of the weight off. It also would have been smart to return to the room at 6 or 7 to chill for the rest of the evening, rather than schlepping a bunch of bags through Hong Kong’s subway system (oh man, was it crowded!), then to the Kowloon train station, then finally through Guangzhou’s train station, where I had to stand in line for 30 minutes waiting for a cab. It would have also been great to have dinner and a few drinks with a good friend in Hong Kong I’ve been trying to meet up with for the past few months. This is what the Christmas season should be all about – refocusing more on the people in your life who REALLY matter.
In the end, I was unable to do the Sunday ride because of the shoulder pain. I’ll be lucky if I can get back on the rollers in the next few days. It all makes me feel stupid.
Next year, I’m going to take a break from cycling during the two weeks before Christmas. The holiday season is already too hectic. All I should do is hand myself over to the season and go with it. If I can fit in a roller workout or two, maybe a weekend ride, well, that’s great. But if it doesn’t happen, no biggie.
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