A couple days ago, I began describing some of the differences between riding in southern China and the Midwest of America. I want to continue the theme today.
Critters - One of the many odd things about my riding experience in China was that I rarely saw any wildlife. True, much of my cycling was done in a polluted, chaotic and sprawling metropolis that was barely fit for the 10 million humans who lived there. But I also rode a lot in undeveloped mountainous areas – like Nankunshan and Maofengshan – surrounded with lush subtropical forests, places you would think would be crawling with all sorts of critters. However, the only wild creature I remember seeing was a lime green lizard with really bad timing. He ran in front of my front wheel on a steep mountain descent, and I’m afraid I crushed his spine. I did see plenty of rats in the city and a turtle or two in the Pearl River by my home, but I can’t recall seeing any squirrels, rabbits or deer in rural areas. It was as if the countryside were stripped of all wildlife during China’s many famines. The Chinese have a knack for driving nature to the mat and getting it into a deadly choke hold. (OK, my Czech, German and Irish ancestors arrived in America after the white man wiped out the buffalo.)
My friend Brendan and I saw a huge rat climbing the garbage-shrewn bank of this stream near Bapian Mountain. We stopped and stared at it for five minutes. I snapped some photos but the rat just looked like a black blob.
The province where I lived, Guangdong, is home to the Cantonese – famous for being adventurous eaters: dogs, cats, frogs, scorpions, turtles. You name it, they’ll pick it up with their chopsticks. One of the cruelest, most disturbing things I’ve seen in my life was on display in Guangzhou’s famous Qingping market. It was some sort of small deer stuffed in a cage. The cage was so cramped that to get the animal to fit into it, the butcher had to hack off the deer’s legs at the knees. The creature stared out at me, eyes filled with pain and fear, with four bloody stumps sticking out of the cage. I witnessed this when I was a language student in China in the late 80s, but I can still close my eyes and see that animal.
In stark contrast, America’s rural and suburban Midwest region seems to be full of wildlife. I’ve been seeing a lot of wild geese. On one ride, they blocked the road, and I had to unclip and stand there with a guy in a big pickup truck, waiting for them to waddle slowly away as if they owned the road. If they tried a stunt like that in China, the whole flock would be captured with nets and on sale in the nearest market within minutes. I’ve already mentioned the raccoons in a recent post. Deer are everywhere. Yesterday, I was riding home in the middle of the afternoon when I saw a big fat pear-shaped brown mammal lounging around on my neighbor’s front yard. I quickly ruled out the dog or cat possibility. It looked like a beaver without the flat tail (I saw a beaver on another outing!). I’m certain it was a wood chuck. My neighbor behind me said she had a family of them living under her deck. Before I passed the creature, it woke up and scampered away.
I like to ride hard, hammer down the road like everyone else does. But I also love cycling because it’s a great way to get out and see things. I’m always ready to stop my workout to gawk at wildlife. I like the feeling of being in the presence of something that lives in another world with different rules and cares. It’s always a thrill. It’s also comforting. The presence of wildlife tells you that you’re living in a place that’s healthy enough to support all kinds of life. You’re not living on a factory floor or a toxic waste dump.
UPDATE: After reading the post, Brendan found a great picture of the rat at Bapian Mountain and shared it with me:
It’s East vs. West. Who can build a better bike trap? On one side is American ingenuity. On the other is China, the world’s new manufacturing powerhouse.
First up, America. It’s going with something that’s low-tech, easy to create but highly effective. Let’s call it the gravel sprawl. It’s created by taking several shovel loads of gravel – the chunkier the better – and just spreading the rocks across the street. It’s best to do it on the bottom of a downhill or after a sharp curve in the road. The cyclist rips around the blind corner and must find a way through it. This trap’s inspiration is the Hoth asteroid field in “Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back.” When I encountered the below gravel sprawl on yesterday’s ride, I thought I heard CP-30 say: “Sir, the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is approximately 3,720 to 1.” Like Hans Solo, I replied, “Never tell me the odds.” It bounced my bike around. I had to dodge some of the bigger bits that could stop my wheel or throw me to the ground like a well-executed judo move. I got through it safely after uttering a quick prayer to Madonna del Ghisallo.
Here’s a closer look at the trap, found on a four-mile loop around a lake at a gated community outside of Kansas City. Notice the fine design. The smaller rocks are in the front, making you think the trap isn’t that bad. They lure you into the middle, where the big chunks start messing with you, challenging your bike-handling skills, testing your cool head.
I’m not sure China can match the simplicity and effectiveness of the gravel sprawl. But let’s take a look at what’s on offer. Oh no, what do we have here? China is going deep, really deep, into the mountains of a rugged southwestern region. The bike trap documentation comes from intrepid Beijing-based cyclist Anthony Paglino of Ride2Freedom who tells Waffles & Steel:
“I wanted to share one such experience with you about a 150km stretch of road that we did in western Sichuan over 3 days, and countless mountains above 4000 meters. One of the most interesting things I saw, among many, was the manner in which the road authority handled road ‘disrepair.’ If any section of the road faltered, caved in, disappeared, rather than fixing the problem, large concrete cylinders with red stripes where placed around the defunct area. If no cylinders were available then large rocks where placed to quarantine the zone.”
I’m sure those rocks and posts light up at night so vehicles don’t plow into them.
Those pieces of wood in the pot hole are designed to launch you into the air after you ride into the hole. That red paint makes the rocks really easy to see.
OK, both sides have argued their cases. The judging must begin…
I just left China, maybe for good. I’ll be taking a year off to do a fellowship at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. When I finish, the company says a job will be waiting for me, but I don’t know where. I’m not too worried about it. Every so often in life, you must cast yourself out to sea. It’s definitely time for me to go.
For the past 22 years, I’ve been thinking about China every morning when I wake up. I’m leaving much more than a country. I’m leaving an obsession, a way of life, something that has framed my existence and has shaped my identity for a long, long time. It’s been like a marriage, with tons of time, effort and emotion invested in the relationship. What I’m doing now feels like a break-up. I’m not sure if it will be a divorce or just a separation. But I do know that we both need to get away from each other.
The seeds of my fixation with China were planted in the 70s. I still remember drawing pictures of Nixon on the Great Wall for a current events assignment in second grade. Years were spent learning to read, write and speak the language. I’ll never forget how my adviser in graduate school in the early 90s tried to discourage me from focusing on China. The country might continue to open up, he said, but it would always just be a big, sleepy Communist nation that would never really amount to much. I ignored him and it was one of the best things I’ve done in my life.
Egads! This is how the movers packed my steel Colossi. They wanted to lower the seat but the post was stuck so they just left it protruding from the top of the box.
Before I sat down to write this, I promised myself that I wouldn’t spend too much time sharing my parting reflections about the country. Many of my readers probably aren’t that interested. Most importantly, I’m reluctant to say too much until I’ve had some time to step back and reflect more about the big picture. Living in China can be emotionally and mentally draining. I need some time to sort out my thoughts.
But I will say that I left with serious concerns about China’s future. So much can go wrong, with the environment, economy and the seemingly stable but obviously brittle political system. Like many others, I once thought that China’s economic reforms would eventually lead to democracy and a freer society. This helped fuel my optimism and love for the country. But I no longer believe that now, and I doubt that the nation will become substantially more democratic and free in the next few decades. This won’t be too big of a problem for many of the Chinese I met in the streets. They gave me the impression that they just want normal, stable lives. They just want to be a bit more better off each year. I can understand this, but it doesn’t work for me.
What will happen to Waffles & Steel? I’m not sure yet. When I started the site, I knew that I would only be in China for a year or two more, so I wanted a blog title that would travel well and work in other countries. I imagine I will find plenty of things to write about as I cope with the culture shock I’ll feel after re-entering the Western world after being away for so long.
I’ll be hanging out in Seoul for a few days before heading to New York for the obligatory visit to the home office. The next stop will be Kansas City before the family and I resettle in Ann Arbor in late July or August – hopefully before the winter temps set in!
“Headache gray” is the best way to describe Guangzhou’s skies on most days. The description comes from the R.E.M. song “Daysleeper.” One of the most common questions people ask me about my cycling here is whether I worry about breathing in all the smog. I really don’t. I try not to worry about things that are beyond my control. I also tell myself that I won’t be living here forever, and I’ve promised myself that my next move will be to a place with clean air. But I often feel guilty exposing my kids’ young lungs to the filth.
This is what the skies looked like last weekend. If you got rid of the haze, you would be able to see the lattice design that runs up Guangzhou’s new iconic TV tower – the world’s tallest. But because of the smog, you can barely see the tower. It looks like a shadow that has been Photoshopped into the image. Sometimes it looks like a twister in the far distance.
It’s hard to find reliable air quality readings. I don’t trust the numbers that appear in the state-run media. In Beijing, the U.S. Embassy does its own daily air quality tests and distributes the numbers via Twitter. The Chinese authorities probably aren’t happy about that. I’ve grown so used to the foul air that I don’t notice it much. The only time it really bothers me is when a weather system blows in that seems to push down the smog on the city. After a long ride, my eyes will sting, as if some noxious chemical got trapped between my contact lens and my eyeball.
When the global financial crisis began hitting China with full force in 2008, there was a wave of factory closures in this part of the country, known as the Pearl River Delta – the “world’s factory floor” because of the industrial density. During the downturn, we noticed a dramatic improvement in the air. Blue skies were much more common. There was certainly an upside to the economic downside.
Don’t even think about bargaining with the Troll. True, you’re a customer and he’s a businessman. But that doesn’t mean he has to be nice to you. He doesn’t have to act like you’re welcome in his shop. In fact, he’d be happy if you just left. Just get the hell out. Piss off.
I started calling him the “Troll” after the first time I visited his Hong Kong shop, which I call “The Troll’s Den.” Its real name is “The Wing’s” and its improbable location is on 222 Fa Yuen Street (or Flower Street) in the gritty Mongkok area of Kowloon. It strikes me as a weird place for a bike shop because the street is more of a lady’s market, lined with street stalls selling costume jewelry, bras, underwear, blouses and other frilly things. Wing’s is easy to miss. The shop’s entrance is obscured by the stalls and you can only see the sign on the second-floor shop.
Imagine a bike shop that never had a clearance sale. That’s the Troll’s Den. Ancient inventory just gets plowed under and mixed in with the new stuff in the cluttered, cramped little store. Wings seems to be stuck in a time warp – the 80s and 90s. A display case features a Colnago frame with the long-defunct Mapei team’s colors and design. I challenge anyone to find a pair of bright red and yellow Polti socks. The Troll has them. He’s got a water bottle from Greg Lemond’s old “Z” team! Mixed in with all this is the latest from Look, Pinarello and Campy. Digging through his merchandise, you can’t help but have flashbacks of Museeuw, Virenque, Pantani – an era when riders were doped out of their minds but truly fantastic and forgivable all the same.
I found his shop two years ago when I needed a new pair of Sidi shoes. The Troll is apparently a Sidi distributor and has an amazing selection. I picked up two pairs of Ergo 2 Lites for me and a friend. The total sale was about US$1,000. I asked the Troll if he would give me a discount. He just snarled at me. Then he said he’d charge me 10 percent more if I didn’t pay cash and used a credit card.
The troll also has an incredible collection of cycling caps. On my second visit to the store, I found an awesome Basso cap. My first serious bike was a Basso, and I was overwhelmed with nostalgia and just had to buy it. But there was a brown stain on the bill, as if it took incoming fire from a flock of geese. I showed the stain to the Troll and asked if he would knock a little off the price. He grumbled something like: “No, it’s cheap enough already!”
When you walk into the store, the Troll never greets you. He never asks if you need help. He just waits to take your money. He sits at his desk behind a counter that he’s barely able to peek over. He usually wears polyester slacks and a white undershirt. I’d love to know his story. How did he get into the bike business? I’m just too damn afraid to ask. This week, when I visited, he was eating a lunch of fried noodles, string beans and soup that had a cube of pink Spam-like meat in it. I went to the shop to get a replacement buckle for my Sidi shoes. One of the ratcheting buckles stopped grabbing the shoe’s top strap.
I took the shoe out of my backpack and approached the Troll in the proper way: very slowly, with my head slightly bowed, my eyes averting contact with his eyes. Just as I started to talk, he stuck a long string bean in his mouth and glared at me. I said, “I’m sorry but I’m wondering if I can ask you a question. You see, my buckle isn’t working right. Is there a way to fix it?” You’d think that because I paid US$500 for the shoes, the Troll would have at least taken a look or asked if the shoe was still under warranty and worthy of a free fix. But nah. He got up, started rummaging around inside a messy display case, then threw down a plastic bag that had two replacement buckles. “They’re HK$120,” he said. You might think that he would offer to replace the buckle for me. But nah. He walked back around his desk and continued with his lunch, loudly slurping the soup. I took out one of the buckles and compared it to the one on my shoe. It looked the same. “Ok, thanks. I’d just like to have a look around,” I said, leaving the buckles on his counter.
A sweet woman who I think might be his daughter arrived with her darling toddler. She was in the store when I bought the Basso hat, and she seemed sympathetic to my request for a discount. This time, she gave me a warm greeting and plunked her child in the play pen next to the Troll. As the cute child chirped and squeaked, I looked at the Troll’s face out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to smile at the child or show some sign of having emotions other than contempt and disdain. He just scowled at the kid.
One theory I had was that the Troll just doesn’t like foreigners. There’s a bike shop in Guangzhou that doesn’t seem to want to deal with expats. We always get a chilly reception there. But when I visited the Troll this week, there was a young Hong Kong guy in the shop in a dress shirt and tie. It seemed like he snuck away from the office to try on a pair of blue-trimmed Sidi Genius 6.6 Carbon Lites. Of course, the Troll didn’t bother to get up to help the guy. I watched as the customer approached the Troll to ask a question. He used the same manner: bowed head, eye contact averted, an I’m-not-worthy-and-please-don’t-hit-me-or-verbally-abuse-me tone of voice. The Troll grunted out a short sentence and the customer quietly walked back to the Sidi section.
The scene reminded me of the hilarious “Soup Nazi” episode in “Seinfeld.” A chef opens a take-out soup joint that serves amazing soup that the Seinfeld crew become instantly addicted to. But the chef is a short-tempered little man who just wants customers to buy his soup and get the hell out of his shop. If you ask a question or make a special request, the chef yells, “No soup for you!” I’m sure the Troll would love the show. I can hear him now: “No bike gear for you! Get out!”
J.K. on the top of the podium at the Bei Feng Mountain climbing race.
I was looking at the guy who was on the top of the podium after last Sunday’s climbing race on Bei Feng Mountain, and I started thinking back to the first time I met him. It was about two years ago. He came huffing and puffing up to me from behind while I was doing the 16-kilometer loop in Guangzhou’s university district, known as “Unitown.” The first thing he said was, “Hi. You look like a real pro, like those guys in the cycling magazines!” He then mentioned that he was friends with a bunch of other expat cyclists and he proceeded to name them – all 20 of them. He called himself “J.K.” but in my mind, he was “Mr. Squeaky.” That’s because his battered, hand-me-down aluminum bike was always crying out for lubrication. The chain was rusty, the derailleurs made a cringe-inducing whining noise. His frame was classic with downtube shifters and rough tig-welded joints. The brand was Motache, which some of us called, “Mustache.” He wore a baggy yellow Motache jersey that was two sizes too big for his elfish body.
The old J.K. on his aluminum frame with the shifters on the downtube, jersey two sizes too big. Water bottle supplied by Gatorade.
When he first started riding with us, he would show up in running shoes. He eventually graduated to cleated mountain biking shoes, which were usually caked with mud. Once he looked at the slogan painted on my steel bike that says, “Eddy rode steel, too.” He read it out loud, then asked, “Hey, who’s Eddy? What does this mean?” I told him it refers to Eddy Merckx, the greatest cyclist of all time. J.K. gave me a blank look. I wondered if I was mispronouncing Merckx’s name in Mandarin. I explained that Merckx was the Belgian guy who dominated cycling in the mid 60s and 70s, winning almost every race he rode in. Still nothing. I told him that when he got home, the first thing he needed to do was Google Mr. Merckx. For me, knowing about the sport’s history – the exploits, heroism and dramas of the people who rode before me – greatly enhances my enjoyment of the sport. But I guess for young guys like J.K., it doesn’t really matter. He just seems to love cycling, period, but I don’t know why. The problem with J.K. is that he’ll only speak English with me, even though my Mandarin is far superior. It’s hard to get much out of him when he insists on replying with his very basic English. From Sunday’s race results, I did learn that his Mandarin name is Xu Ru Jie. His initials “J.K.” come from his Cantonese name, which is spelled and pronounced slightly different. In Mandarin, the “Ru” character is only used in literary Chinese, not the spoken form, and it means: “you.” The character “Jie” can be a noun meaning “outstanding person” or it can be the adjective “outstanding.” So a hip contemporary translation of his name would be: “You da Man!”
About a year went by and I didn’t see J.K. on the road. But I heard that he was racing a lot and doing well in the B Division. A few weeks ago, I was doing a long recovery ride at Unitown with a few other expats. Three Chinese riders joined us and the ride quickly became a hammerfest led by a Chinese rider wearing styling orange booties and riding a carbon Specialized frame. I got dropped then rode like a demon to bridge back up to the group before a series of hills. I was just about to get over the last hill when the guy in the orange booties put the hammer down, throwing me into severe difficulty. He rode away as I scratched my helmet and wondered, “Who is that guy in the orange booties?” Later, the guy rode up to me again, smiled and said, “Hello!” Something about him seemed extremely familiar but I couldn’t place him. A day later, it suddenly occurred to me for some reason. “That was J.K.!” I said out loud to myself. Sure enough, there he was at last Sunday’s race in his orange booties and sharp Specialized frame. He’s on a team and has proper sponsorship. He’s riding in the A Division and has become the man to beat. But he’s still J.K. On Sunday, he rode up to me at the starting line and said, “Hello!” in the same boyish way he did two years ago when he was on his “Mustache” bike. I’m one of his biggest fans.
At the 10-kilometer mark, it looked like the road might just corkscrew around Bei Feng Mountain for the last 2 kilometers to the summit. But I wouldn’t know for sure until I turned a sharp curve that would give me a good view of what was ahead. As I rounded the corner, there it was: the final segment of road that just snaked its way up one side of the mountain. It was Medieval in its cruelty. It didn’t look real. It looked like part of the set of a Lord of the Rings movie. I thought for sure that I would pass Frodo and Sam plodding along the road.
The red dot is Taishan, and the black star is Guangzhou, the home of Waffles & Steel.
This was my cool-down ride after Sunday’s 8.4-kilometer race up Bei Feng (or North Summit) Mountain near the city of Taishan in the southern province of Guangdong. The race didn’t finish at the summit, and I’m not sure why. I’m thankful it didn’t because the final ascent to the summit was an absolute killer.
The entire climb – from the race start to the summit – was 12.5 kilometers and we gained 873 meters in elevation. The average gradient was 7 percent, but it hit 20 percent in some areas. The views were breathtaking, with green valleys, lush forests and reservoirs. The mountain was undeveloped, nearly pristine. It was another reminder of how fantastically beautiful this country can be. In so many ways, China reminds me of the American West. Wherever humans settle, you’re bound to see some of the most tragic eyesores created by man. Depressing strip malls, drab homes, monotonous agriculture, abandoned rusty junk. But if you can get away from “civilization,” you’ll meet nature at her breath-taking best. Soaring mountains, vast deserts, thick forests, raging rivers. All in a land that has yet to go gaga over jet skis, bass boats, mobile homes and ski resorts.
I’ll shut up now and let the pictures tell the story, with a little help from captions.
Source: Banovic Data & Graphics Industries
Backing up a bit: This is the scene we saw as we drove toward the race, looking for the starting line. Just beyond the rice paddies lies the source of our pain.
We often felt like we were climbing into the sky.
This is the last chain-busting segment of the climb to the peak. I wanted to shoot it while I was climbing but I really needed both hands on my bars because it was such a brutal climb.
My goals for the 8.4-kilometer Bei Feng Mountain climbing race were pathetically unambitious. First, I wanted to hang with the peloton for at least the first 200 meters, until the starting-line crowd could no longer see us as we disappeared around a sharp bend and into a heavily forested area. In China, races usually start out super fast, with riders going balls out berzerk the second the gun goes off. I don’t have a fast-twitch muscle in my body, so this is a serious problem for me. I’m purely a strength, or endurance, cyclist who does better when the serious climbs come at the 100-kilometer mark. My second goal was not to get swallowed up by the B Group peloton, which started 2 minutes after us.
To my great relief, the peloton took off at a sane pace, and I was still in the mix after 500 meters when the road started to turn up. Surprisingly, I was still hanging on at the 1-kilometer mark when the incline started to bite really hard. Then the hammer went down and the tempo quickly picked up. I was gasping for oxygen and my legs already felt drenched in lactic acid. A second later, I went flying out the back door – cycling jargon for being dropped hard, being left for dead by the pack. Joining me in the caboose of the pain train were three junior riders who were put into the elite A Group division at the last minute. They were teen-age stick figures, weighing about 40 kilos each. They were long on promise but short on conditioning. It looked like a good “youth vs. experience” battle was brewing between us.
Brendan powering across the line.
Up the mountain, my friend Brendan – the only other foreigner in the A Group – was holding his own as usual. During his four-year stint in Guangzhou, Brendan has been the fastest expat racer by far – truly in a league of his own. Currently riding for Trek’s team, he rarely missed a race in the area and often traveled to other parts of China to compete. He’s spent a lot of time on the podium and was always in contention, even when working his butt off for a teammate. This is outstanding for someone with a demanding job, a wife and two kids. Most of the Chinese riders are young single guys who don’t have to juggle so many heavy career and family demands. Brendan has become a legend in the local racing scene and learned enough Mandarin to be able to chat with the local riders, who obviously have an immense amount of respect for him. Bei Feng was his last race before moving back to the U.S. Although he has been scaling back his training because he’s been busy preparing his move, he was still able to finish fifth, 4:21 ahead of me and fast enough to be included in the award ceremony. It’s going to be a long time before another person like Brendan comes along in Guangzhou, and for sure he’s become a permanent fixture in the local cycling lore. He should be commended for his athletic talent and passion for the sport as well as the role he played as a diplomat for cycling and his country.
Shortly after the 2-kilometer mark, a couple of B Group riders hammered past me. I did a shoulder check, just dreading the possibility of the rest of the peloton bearing down on me. It wasn’t, though, so I pushed the pace and tried to stick with the B Group leaders. By the 3-kilometer point, I had picked off two of the junior riders who were in serious difficulty. I knew that the road would level out between the third and fourth kilometers, so I powered past the third-and-last junior rider, who was racing in a wife-beater T-shirt. At the 4-kilometer mark, the road kicked up steeply for a few 100 meters before leveling off. The rest of the race was like that: short steep climb…short stretch of level road…killer switchback…level again…brutal short climb…false flat…then the final 200 meters or so were up a steep incline to the finish line.
This graphic was supplied by the race organizers. A more detailed analysis by Banovic Data & Graphics Industries puts the total elevation at 469.3 meters, distance at 8.41 kilometers and average gradient at 5.9 percent.
Source: Banovic Data & Graphics Industries
I accomplished my two feeble goals: staying with the group for the first kilometer and fending off the B Group peloton. I did have an unstated goal, which I fell far short of. I didn’t want to finish last. I was hoping that one of the elite riders would go out so hard that he would blow up spectacularly so that I could reel him in. It didn’t happen. I finished exactly 9 minutes behind the winner, Xu Rujie, who crossed the line in 25:27 at an average speed of 20.75 kph. I tooled along at 15.33 kph to finish in 34:27. The rider who finished just in front of me got me by 38 seconds.
The winner, Xu Rujie, flying up the last climb.
I’m trying to remember the last time I finished last in a race. I’m pretty sure it was in high school when my track coach still wasn’t sure what kind of a runner I was. He put me in the 400 once, and I’m pretty sure I finished last. It’s one of those youthful traumas you try to forget, I guess. Anyway, after that race, my coach started having me do what we called the “graveyard shift” – running the mile and two mile in the same meet. He quickly figured out that my legs only got going after running the mile event.
Observe the dork in polka dots placing last. Next time, he'll show up in a yellow jersey.
Check out the video of the race here. The funny thing is that they apparently edited out Brendan and me. Or maybe they didn’t even shoot us. I don’t know why they would do this. Perhaps the race organizers signed up for a cheaper form of insurance that wouldn’t include foreigners. But I noticed the video did include a Japanese rider. I’m trying to imagine the reaction if Asians were edited out of a video shot of a race in America or Europe. To be sure, I’m not upset about this. I’m really more amused and puzzled. It’s weirdness that I became accustomed to long, long ago.
I’m just happy and grateful no one made any wisecracks about my polka-dotted jersey and my last place finish!
Next: The fantastic post-race ride
(Editor’s note: Waffles & Steel takes great pride in the fact that most of the photos used on the site are produced by our own photographers. But due to the difficulties posed by China’s Great Firewall, our photos couldn’t be uploaded today. The wonderful photos were found here. There are many more so check them out.)
The polka-dotted jersey is worn by the King of the Mountains – a cyclist with super human abilities to climb faster than anyone else in a race. I had no business wearing the dots Sunday when I lined up for a race at Bei Feng Mountain in southern China. But there I was with the mammoth measles all over my torso as I stood on the starting line with the elite A Group – 11 riders who looked like they were born to climb. They were super skinny, whippets on wheels whose lightness of being gives them a huge advantage when the road turns up. Any extra gram that won’t help you get up a mountain can drag you down. Climbers are maniacs about weight.
I might have missed it but I don't see an ounce of fat here. (More about the guy in green in a later post.)
If I had known I would be racing, I wouldn’t have had the chutzpah to put on the polka dots. I missed the deadline to sign up for the competition, so I had planned to cheer on my friends and then spend the rest of the day cycling in the spectacular mountains. I wore my polka-dotted jersey because it has roomy back pockets that I planned to stuff with a rain cape, snacks, camera, mobile phone, pump, tubes and any gear my friends might need me to haul for them. I also thought it would be OK for a geeky cheering roadside fan to be in red dots. Most importantly, the spots professed my love for the climbing part of bike racing. With most sports, the competition gets more interesting when the game gets faster, when the action speeds up. But it’s the opposite in cycling. When the great stage races – Italy’s Giro, Spain’s Vuelta or the Tour de France – head into the mountains, the tempo slows but the heroism, drama and pain increases. It’s in the mountains where we see races blown open by spectacular ascents. We see leaders crack. We see horrific, sometimes deadly, accidents. We see riders dueling on mountain slopes and switchbacks that would leave most humans gasping for air and drowning in lactic acid. This is why I love the battle for the polka dots.
But as I packed my gear bag, a wise voice inside my head told me I should bring another jersey – just in case I ended up racing. As usual, I ignored the voice. When I was already out the door, I found out a friend overslept and wouldn’t be competing, so I decided to race under his name in the elite competition. But I felt awkward and embarrassed when I thought about racing in polka dots. They sent a bold message – I can kick every one’s butt – that a rider of my age, talent and form just can’t back up. Indulging in wishful thinking, I started to wonder if the Chinese would really interpret it that way. The dots come from a European cycling tradition that they might not truly understand or appreciate. That silly theory was shot down as soon as I lined up for a race. A Chinese rider approached me and said, “Hey, everyone is talking about you because you’re wearing the King of the Mountains jersey. They’re worried about you. They think you’re really going to be good.” Oh jeez.
I saw several of these signs last weekend on the long descent on Nankun Mountain. They always crack me up because they say so much about the Chinese approach to driving. In China, the most important safety device in a car isn’t the brake or a gas pedal being operated by a sane and sensible driver. Nope, it’s the horn. When in doubt, honk your horn!
Another thing that I like about this is that the signs warn drivers of a blind curve when the curve is already clearly in view. Drivers really need to see this sign about 20 meters earlier, especially on a wet road.
In China, when you’re approaching a blind turn, you don’t need to slow down. All you need to do is toot your horn. And that’s exactly what everyone does! They certainly don’t slow down. If they don’t hear any honking, they rip around these corners, often straying into the other lane. On Saturday, a van decided to pass us by moving into the other lane just as it was about to round the corner.
I’ve been climbing in the mountains in Taiwan this week, and I noticed that the Taiwanese don’t encourage horn honking. Instead, they put signs ahead of tricky sections of roads urging drivers to slow down. In most cases, they paint a huge Chinese character that says “slow” on the road before dangerous curves.
I think the Chinalogical explanation for the horn-honking signs would be: Right, it’s common sense that when you’re driving down a twisty-curvy mountain road, you MUST drive slowly. Do people really need to be reminded of this? Isn’t it a natural reflex? What people DO need to be reminded of is to beep their horn just as a courtesy to oncoming traffic. You can never use your horn enough! An extra toot or two never hurt anyone.
The problem with the Chinalogic is that many drivers seem to assume that if they aren’t hearing anyone beeping, there is no oncoming traffic to worry about and they can continue speeding around the corner. I’ve seen this happen too many times.
UPDATE: A reader with an impressive grasp of Chinalogic made an astute comment on Waffles & Steel on Facebook. I think this is the best explanation so far of what might be going on with the horn honking. The reader said, “I’m not sure if this still holds in Chinalogic, but a decade or so ago, bus drivers routinely killed the engine and careened down tortuous mountain roads with their lights off in neutral at night – to conserve fuel, you understand. It seems that when rounding a corner in a silent behemoth flashing no light beams, it’s the least you could do to toot on the horn to warn oncoming vehicles of your existence.”
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