Portrait of an LBX

By Andy

Note: With Alexis having moved on to do his own thing, there’s now no one keeping a diary of daily events, in English, French or any other language. I’m going to attempt to pick up some of that task, but being as unreasonably wordy as I am and only having so many hours in the day, I’m going to have to limit it to some of my more memorable riding days. This is one such day.

We set out from Lancang late in the morning as has been our habit lately after two days of rest and a woefully low-budget celebration of Devi and my four years together. In the dreary city of Lancang we’re unable to find even a restaurant with four walls. Fortunately, my mom has sent over a bottle of Cuvaison 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon for my birthday, and after finding a couple wine glasses at the local supermarket, we manage to make a memorable evening out of it at a Sichuan restaurant down the street from our hotel.

We hear from numerous people that the road from Lancang to Lincang is torn up and under construction for the entire 267km. The willingness of the government here to inconvenience people on that sort of scale continues to amaze us. I just try to imagine heading onto the road from Harrisburg to Philadelphia back home and seeing a sign that says, “Construction next 100 miles.” But in China, there’s no sign, no detour markers, and the road is under construction for 165 miles. Having gone nearly insane a few weeks previously on a similar, 60km stretch of under-construction national road through the mountains a couple weeks previously, we decide to take a radical route through the mountains, even though the thought of the switchbacks on Google Maps make our stomachs curl.

The road starts out pleasantly enough as we move out of the rather miserable county seat of Lancang and past about a dozen fish farms selling tilapia fry (there are also shops in town selling expensive fishing gear for those who want to go dangle a line in one of the small ponds). We hit the first construction just as the sky begins to turn an ominous dark gray and the wind picks up worrying notch, and we seek shelter under a gas station that has been converted into a rebar-welding depot for the construction work. After 15 minutes or so there’s still no rain in sight, and we continue on our merry way.

It turns out the road is not nearly as bad as we imagine, as most of the construction of the new highway is being done high above on the mountain while we crank along on the old two-lane road far below. I start thinking, “If it’s going to be like this the whole way, we might as well just keep going and skip the crazy mountain route.” But not wanting to jinx things I keep my mouth shut.
I guess the rules of jinxing don’t apply in China, because around lunchtime the new highway previously so far above has come down to greet us, and our paved road disappears into a mess of dust and loose stones. As we continue down the road at a much more cautious place, the sky again starts exhibiting signs of gray, mean-spiritedness, and we duck under an overhang at a convenience store in a small village to wait out the impending raindrops.

But again the rain never materializes, and after 15 minutes or so we leave the safety of our shelter and climb back onto the dusty road, figuring that it’s just going to look like rain all day without actually coming to anything. As soon as we cruise down a hill long enough to keep us from wanting to go back up though, the raindrops begin — large, and clearly meaning business as they smash into the dusty road, kicking particles inches into the air.

Cursing the irony, we sprint to the nearest cover in small cluster of houses a few hundred meters uphill in front of us and slide under an awning just as the downfall begins to abate. We wait for a few minutes just to make sure the coast is clear before timidly stepping out into the now clearly dangerous open air.

In another few kilometers the climbing starts in earnest. Our wheels spin in the loose-dust-turned-mud, struggling to gain traction on the incline. Evan and I are both on Schwalbe Marathon Plus tires now after Evan ditched his Marathon XRs in Jinghong, and the tread is not quite optimal for expedition touring. Given the number of popped tubes Evan and Alexis had with the XRs though, we’ll take the tradeoff.

On her motorbike, Devi bolts ahead (everything is relative here, concerned parents — she always drives safely), and Evan and I are left behind to struggle with the slope. Eventually, I leave Evan behind and continue up the mountain at my own pace. After eight months on the road, we don’t feel the need to hang to each other like girls going to the bathroom on a double date anymore.

At the crest, the muddy road turns to cobblestone, to which in some twisted way my brain at first responds with the emotion of relief. But as my bones start to shake and my oh-so-sore butt bumps repeatedly against the saddle, I let out a long groan. Really, is there a worse road surface than cobblestone for biking? Even mud dries into hard earth, so you get a decent ride anytime it’s not raining.

I fly downhill, standing up to keep my aching sit-bones off the saddle. Now that I’m moving downhill, I can relax my concentration a little and take in the scenery. The rain is long-gone and replaced by cerulean sky punctuated with a line of puffy, white clouds stretching off into the distance over a far-off mountain range. Deciduous forests cover rolling hills and mountains that expand endlessly over the horizon, providing one of my favorite contrasts in color alongside the sky.

My absorption in the landscape comes to an end as I hit the brakes at a group of parked vehicles on the downslope. I squeeze my way between small, blue cargo trucks and motorcycles to find Devi at the front in front of a sign reading “Road Closed” and a red and white painted piece of bamboo over the road.

As it turns out, the road is only open for six hours out of 24, something we presumably would’ve known if we had read the small print three paragraphs into a blue road sign a kilometer back. Oh, China!

It’s four o’clock and the road won’t open again until seven. They’re blasting dynamite, so the usual tactic of ignoring all forms of Chinese authority not actively displaying a pair of handcuffs is out. A small truck pulls up to the back of the line and a peasant couple hop out with four boxes of instant noodles, an assortment of bottled drinks, and some bamboo tables on which to lay everything out. Even in these tranquil mountains, the entrepreneurial spirit thrives!

We hunker down with our iPhones, iPods and Kindles and pass away the hours. Surprisingly, no one says hello.

A little before seven, we all jump at the sound of a solitary dynamite explosion. Moments later, the sulfury smell wafts by, stinging our nostrils, and the road is open to business for a brief two hours. With 25km of cobblestone mountain roads to go, we sprint down the mountain, hoping to beat the dark.

After descending the mountain and going a kilometer or so up the next, Devi and I wait impatiently in the fading light as Evan digs dirt out from between his rear tire and fender, which has caused his rear wheel to freeze up entirely. Once it’s free, we begin moving up the mountain again, shaking and jolting as our tires lumber over the cobblestones.

I push ahead as quickly as possible to try outrun the darkness, telling Devi to go ahead the whole way to our destination at Fubang at the top of the mountain, now still 15km away. As the sun falls below the ridge, I leave Evan behind again and continue into the growing dimness on my own.

When darkness first falls completely, it’s somewhat of a novelty. It’s been a long time since we’ve ridden in the dark. I fix my headlight onto my helmet, turn on my taillight blinkers and embrace the jungle sounds around me.

The novelty doesn’t last long. I haven’t charged my headlight battery since who-knows-when and it grows steadily dimmer as I inch up the mountain. My China Unicom iPhone has no service in these remote hills, and the touchscreen doesn’t respond to my sweat-covered fingers anyway. Evan is now far behind me, and I am alone on the dark mountain road.

Tutu’s story (Evan will get to Tutu in another post soon) about how a Bulang person who dies on the road must be buried to the side of the road crosses my mind. As each small light of a house grows slowly closer in the dark, dogs erupt into a cacophony of angry barking. I strain my ears to listen for the accompanying sounds of chains to let me know that I’m not about to be chased down by rabid hounds. In the damp jungle air, I’m gushing sweat, and the Camelback is nearly empty.

With seven kilometers to go, I arrive at a roadside stand where three dogs run out into the road snarling. I stop to face off with them and a man runs out from the lit stand to chase them off. “How far to Fubang,” I ask.

“Seven kilometers?”

“How much up?”

“Seven kilometers.”

“No, I mean is it mostly uphill, or mostly down?”

“It’s seven kilometers, all up.”

“#&@*&!!!1”

Straining just to keep my balance as I inch up the hill, I can barely manage to look down at the odometer as the tenths of kilometers tick slowly by. I round a turn and see lights on the hill above me. Fubang!

For what seems like ages, the lights never seem to grow any closer. Now I feel like I’m literally going a bit batty. The occasional kid on a motorbike flies past me, screaming “Hallo!!” in the darkness. How can they tell I’m a foreigner in the blink of an eye in the dark? I start shining my headlight in their faces to keep it from happening, but the silly thing is too dim. The mountain seems to get steeper as I climb.

Finally, I reach a dark, unmarked, but paved right turn going up a hill. I try to get the phone to call Devi, but the touchscreen won’t listen to my drenched fingers. Luckily, two men come down on a moped and I hail them down. It’s the turn-off to Fubang. A couple hundred more meters on a concrete road and I am at the shack of a hotel that is the only lodging in town. Nothing is open for dinner, but I don’t care. After a cold shower, I hit the bed like a rock.