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I make it sound simple, but it must have been anything ROC—Randonneurs Of China
but. The ACP is famous for intricate and perplexing
rules, and planning a 200km brevet route in fast-developing 21st century
China—where maps are obsolete before the ink is dry—surely an insurmountable task
for most men.
Getting There
Thursday, April 12, 2007
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A half-hour later, while climbing into the back of the car, I note the low-fuel indicator
while the agent relays the directions to the driver—and then we're off into the
Shanghai night. "America good," the driver exclaims. Well, sometimes. "Clinton," he
recalls, and gives me a thumbs-up in the rear view mirror. "Okay, yeah, but we've got
George Bush now," I reply. He looks puzzled. "Bush," I repeat, but the name doesn't
ring a bell. Maybe I'm not pronouncing it right?
Nearing midnight, we're off the freeway and stopped at a red light on a wide avenue.
A line of cars to our right is turning left in front of us—odd? The left turn lane is on the
right-side of the road. You see a lot of peculiar things in Shanghai.
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garages hold no cars—everybody walks, bikes and uses the shuttle or hired car here.
Joe shows me to the shower, the futon and I'm in for the night.
Back home, in North Carolina, pedicabs or rickshaws are just beginning to appear in
the larger cities. I don't recall seeing any in China or India though. Bikes here are
widely used for transportation and for hauling large loads of all sorts of cargo, but for
the most part people traveling by bicycle pedal themselves. The "auto-rickshaw" may
have killed the pedicab in India?
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Turning east on Bei Qing Highway, then south into a community known as
"Zhuditown" (pronounced something like "Judy-town") the streets are crowded and
lined with people doing business—cooking food, selling rice, produce (watermelon,
roasted corn on the cob, carved pineapples, apples), brown eggs and all manner of
goods and services. The smell of street cooking and the occasional "incense" of
burning trash remind me of India.
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ONLY glass I saw in the road in China. Things like glass bottles are too valuable to
waste by breaking them in the road.
A landscaping crew is watering plants with pumps drawing water from the canal. Two
bicycles are parked against the canal bridge. I do not doubt for a minute that they
have carried those pumps and big hoses to this spot on those bicycles. Watching the
Chinese gives one a whole new understanding of how much weight one can transport
bicycle—even without a trailer! We detour to explore a freshly paved tractor path
through a rice paddy. In Germany, the tractor paths were asphalt and were heavily
used by hikers and "Nordic walkers". Here they are cement and the culverts are
cement-lined too. It all makes the south Louisiana rice paddies that my mother's
family owns and operates look somewhat primitive. I'd like to show this to my nephew,
Peter-Ray, he'd appreciate it, but he'd probably prefer to stick with the Louisiana way
(more mud, less cement, bigger tractors!)
Speaking of tractors, the "Caution: Tractors" road signs look the same as those in the
west, and the tractors silhouetted on those signs look like the ones that China exports
in large numbers. But a tractor here looks nothing like those on the signs. Around
Shanghai, tractors have an exposed motor with a large exposed flywheel and big belts
way out in front of what looks like a low-cab pickup truck. These tractors rather
resemble some kind of tricked-out 1940s California hot-rod dragsters. Think of an
altered-fuel Nomad, chopped and welded to the back of an industrial tiller.
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horn, constantly.
The big blue trucks apparently need to let the air horn
wail almost continuously, lest the built-up air pressure
make the whole thing explode? In Asia, horn honking
doesn't imply anger or threat, just "I'm here". As in 30,000 megawatts by 2020
In India, the heavy trucks are made by "Tata"—the huge family-owned conglomerate
that now dominates communications and technology in India and recently made news
by taking over a huge British steel firms, one of the largest in the world. Tata paints all
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those trucks school-bus yellow. In China, big trucks are all painted blue, though the
appear to be manufactured by a wider variety of suppliers, including "Porland".
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Outside of the city, the land is all flat, dusty and devoid
of interesting geographic details. The highway
stretches out full of cars and blue trucks with guard
rails separating it from the two-wheeler lanes on either
side. I had hoped the air would get better, but it never
really did and made my decision to wear contact lenses
a poor one. There are interesting things to see though Workers in one of countless small
—e.g., a Dutch windmill standing inexplicably at one tree nurseries. New roads are
farm-road intersection, with no sign to explain its going in all over the place, and
every one of them gets
reason for being there. There's always something landscaping, shrubs and
unexpected popping up in China. ornamental trees.
On the way to Suzhou, a few more types of vehicles join in the mix, including an
enclosed three-wheeler that's bigger than an Indian auto-rickshaw and some cargo
haulers made from a large motorcycle front-end welded to a cart or small truck
rear-end. I guess that's what they did with their old motorcycles when the law
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An old woman with bad teeth is hanging around watching as Xianshi and I eat. She
motions and says something in Mandarin toward the plastic bag of purchases I've set
onto the ground and my feet while I fumble with my pannier zippers. Is she telling me
not to litter? No, Xianshi translates—she's interested in my plastic water bottle.
Apparently she can collect some deposit for returning the empties, so I finish off my
water and tea and give her the empty bottles.
I swear I saw a Chinese Rastafarian trudging up the path, but didn't get a
photograph. There's always something unexpected popping up in China. In these
headwinds, the aero position of the recumbent gives me a significant advantage over
Xianshi and I quickly open up a gap, stop and get a photograph of his approach. I
hate going home with nothing but pictures of people's back-sides. When I stopped to
change film and batteries, Xianshi got a big gap ahead of me, so when I came to the
"turn right on road to the police kiosk" point on the cue sheet I was on my own
deciding if this was the correct road to turn. There's a police kiosk here, and a
bunched of caged dogs (for sale?) but the cue sheet says "to the kiosk", not "at the
kiosk". How would I know if the road went TO a kiosk? In randonneuring, one is
expected to keep careful track of odometer readings and cue sheet distances, but I
lost track. At home, it's easy because the territory is so familiar. Overseas, it's more of
a challenge. I take the right, and the next left, which should take me back to the
highway, but it doesn't look right. I try turning left at the next intersection, but after
a few miles, and a large arch across the roadway sign announcing in Chinese and
English: "Obeying traffic regulations is a matter of life and death", the four-lane
divided highway ends where people are pushing bikes and motorcycles down a
narrow path to a pedestrian bridge. They point towards the bridge when I ask
"Shanghai zai nar?", but I don't think that's the brevet route, so I go back to the
intersection and try going straight ahead instead of turning. You'd think a major city
with skyscrapers would stand out like a sore thumb on this desolate plain with so few
trees, but I can't see a city skyline anywhere. At least once I think I see tall towers,
but they turn out to be grain silos.
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Joe is surprised that we took so long to finish. It's a good thing I didn't detour to
explore the road-side attractions. I guess I should have warned Joe that back home
our RBA tells me "You're early" on the rare occasion that I finish a brevet with more
than an hour to spare.
Great ride, great adventure, plenty hours, nice weather, got lost, found my way back,
and saw a lot of unexpected things—the perfect brevet. Wiped out, we go back to
Joe's for soup, Joe gives me maps, helps me find the street for the hostel and I turn in
early.
On my Own
Sunday, April 15, 2007
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Next, I'm stopped by someone wanting to sell me a fake Rolex watch, then another,
then…okay, I'll buy a watch so that I'll have a watch on my wrist and can tell them,
"No thanks, I've already got one." Finding a bike shop, I browse the many
commuters, folders, hybrids, etc… at great prices and expect to be descended upon
by an eager floor salesman at any moment, but it doesn't happen. The
aggressiveness of the street hawkers is not reflected in the shop clerks. The next
street hawker snickers at my watch, "Ha! How much did you pay for THAT? Never
mind. Want to by a Mont Blanc pen? Cheapa-Cheapa!"
I don't understand this. These hawkers have learned a foreign language (English)
—that's not easy—clearly they must be intelligent and educated. How is it that
they're stuck hawking junk to tourists?
And there's one guy who wants to know if I want to buy a shirt.
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Room 310 bed 6, I'm assigned, but I find bed six is full
of clothes. Bed two is clean though, so I unload my Nursery delivery
stuff there and find I've lost the bag with the shirts and
robe, but still have the MP4 player. I head out for a
walk—AWAY from Nanjing Lu—to explore and procure a
meal. The hostel is just two or three blocks west of the
Waibaidu Bridge over Suzhou Creek at north end of The
Bund (the multistory stone 19th century buildings put
up by the Japanese, European and American banks on
the waterfront along the Huang Pu River).
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A flash of lightning, a clap of thunder and the hawkers that were pushing postcards
are suddenly possessed of umbrellas for sale—wow, how did they do that! At least it's
something useful, but the rain is so light that I don't bother. I've developed a new
strategy for dealing with hawkers: they know I'm not Chinese, but that doesn't mean I
speak English, right? From now on, I'm Turkish. I just raise my hand and say "Hayir."
Soft at first, and then forcefully if they persist. Then "alahaismarladik" (good-bye).
"Hayir" is "No," I think…or is it "yes?" No matter, either way, I do not speak English.
"Hayir. Hayir. Hayir!" I don't know if they believe me, it's hard to not let your facial
expression give away that you just understood what they asked, but if they just get
the message that they're wasting their time that's good enough.
Propping my feet back up on the stool, she applies medicated soap and begins a
thorough scrubbing and a series of rubbing, kneading and beating that goes right up
to the knee, including a grab-and-pull on each toe individually making a loud popping
snap when the toe clears the hand. I've had some weird motor-nerve problem that
has caused muscle loss, mostly in my left arm, but my feet feel like there's not much
flesh there anymore either. I wonder if this is supposed to hurt, or if it's the lack of
normal padding on my feet that makes it uncomfortable? Foot massage practitioners
say that tender spots in the feet reflect problems elsewhere in the body, which can be
treated by working those spots. I think I've got a lot of spots that need working. Foot
massage is said to improve ones mental health, reduce stress, boost circulation, and
relieve blood stagnation.
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A Mission
Monday, April 16, 2007
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bought one with Chinese characters meaning "I have no money" when he was
teaching English here—probably a good thing in the vicinity of Nanjing Lu, but I had
to settle for "Lóng", the Chinese symbol for dragon.
The accent over the "ó" means that your voice should
rise as you pronounce the vowel—very important, or
else you end up with an entirely different word and
meaning. I.e. it's not an "accent" but a graphical
representation of the shift in tone. The other three
possibilities are voice dropping, voice dipping down
then up, or voice steady, each similarly depicted with
the appropriate "accent" mark above the vowel. "Dragon" is cool, but can't I get a
"mind your head" shirt?
Then George told me that he had an English student,
"Ms. Gu", who is divorced, would like to find a husband and move to America. "Um,
I'm already married, George." "That's okay, I'll bring her by after work—maybe you
know somebody, or can ask around when you get home."
"Accept," I ask?
"Maybe that's not the best word. What does it mean, 'Accept'?"
"Um…Agree," I say.
"Maybe…persist?"
That settled, I asked about the recent history of Shanghai and China: how have things
changed in recent years?
"It's much more open now. You can criticize the government."
"Sure," he said, and I nodded. Then he added, "of course, they won't print them."
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The temple is approached through a mall-like tunnel of shops. I tell the first
saleswoman who approaches that I'm looking for Quan Yin statues and she tells me
they don't have them. I think the shop owner hears this exchanged and probably
wants to fire her.
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Okay, that's it, this is freaking me out. I put 50 RMB cash on the table and make a
break for it. Half expecting a couple of Chinese gangsters to block the door, I hit the
mezzanine, elevator down, across the food court and back to the street without
looking back. Okay, what happened? Maybe nothing, maybe it was all innocent. Or
maybe that's just how it goes around here—when you live in a place where you can
only earn in an artificially weak currency, and everything is priced sky-high for
tourists, maybe what you do on weekends is find a tourist who'll treat you to tea. In
any case, I think I'll stick to talking to old men, even if they don't speak English.
I pack my stuff away at the hostel, get the skinny on how to get back to the airport
tomorrow morning, and go for a walk. I need to ask somebody about what just
happened. The young man working the floor at the "5 Modern Mart" speaks great
English, and is pretty relaxed. He just kind of shrugs and says something like some
people are friendly and want to talk, others… Okay, I'm relaxing. He's finishing off a
quart of beer. "You can do that? at work?" "No problem—I paid for it." "Heh, yeah,
but even if you paid for it, you can't do that in America." There are two ladies and
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him working the shop. One's working the register, they don't speak English, and they
want him to keep an eye out for shoplifters. They're clowning around a lot—he says
the manager went to a meeting, so they're a bit more relaxed. The eggs have no
serial number here, and they must be fresh—they still have bits of hay and stuff stuck
to them. He asks me about my wife, my family, do I have e-mail…the same questions
that raised my suspicions with the girls earlier—I guess it is innocent, that part
anyway. He has one daughter—that's the "one-child policy". They say families are
very important in China. I guess that makes the questions about kids, especially
foreigner's (multiple!) kids, more interesting.
He says he learned English by talking to tourists, and has a night job dealing antiques
with his father. Day care is too expensive. I tell him young parents in America
struggle with day care expenses too. He says cars are expensive, "I mean it costs SO
much to buy a Ferrari or a Beamer." Uh, yeah, I feel your pain on that one. He's got
plans to open a tea house on a college campus—a quiet place where students can go
to study, hang out, drink tea and smoke. He takes a meal break and we go over to
the dumpling shop. No sooner have they brought us our food when I hear somebody
yell from the stairwell. Even though I don't understand a word of it, I don't have to
turn around to know it's the older of his two co-workers fussing that they need him
back at the store. When we go back to the store, I clown around with them: pretend
that I'm shop-lifting, jump behind the counter and say to the customers (in English)
"Welcome to 5 Modern Mart. How can I help you?", and stand by the front door
imitating the hawkers by holding up an apple and calling out "looka-looka! cheapa-
cheapa!" Once again, I grow sleepy early and retire to the hostel.
As I walk into the hostel, there's somebody I recognize at the table by the door…it's
George! I tell him I've already eaten, so Ms Gu comes by and we just sit there and
talk. George says she's got a career as a trade broker, so she doesn't need money,
just a husband in America—American or Chinese, doesn't matter, he can be crippled,
have only one-leg, she'll take care of him. And if I can find somebody, she'll give me
"Senx". What?!? "Oh, I don't know the English word…uh…money for arranging the
matrimony." Okay, well, I don't want any money, if somebody comes to mind, I'll let
you know. I explain that I have a plane to catch in the morning, they excuse
themselves and I hit the sack early again.
Homeward
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
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On my first group ride back home, I noticed I had to Crossing Alaska on the way home.
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