We head outside to saddle up the bikes. A truck is preparing to leave as well. There are a few people who will travel atop the payload; they will suffer a very cold ride wherever they are going.
It looks like we will have a beautiful and short ride into Tuotuohe, our next town, with mercifully nice weather and even a tail wind.
About 15 kilometres into the morning we begin to emerge from the foothills of the Fenghuo Mountains. There is a threshold beyond which the terrain opens up into a wide expanse, defined by mountains of different colors and severity at different compass points. The eye can reach all of them, the air presents no barrier to vision. Between are grasslands and a large blue lake.
Just at this threshold we cycle past a yurt, a tent which Tibetan nomads can pitch wherever they want. Brice yells out from behind: "Dogs on!" Down from the yurt sprints a dog, right for us. We know what to do, it's been proven: Get off the bikes and take it on. That's what we do, hurling a few rocks and plenty of obscenities. The dog shies away.
Moving on, we simply peel off the clicks. "But why are we rushing?" a nagging voice keeps asking. This place is simply too extraordinary. We should appreciate every centimetre of it. The day is so beautiful we are having fun at any speed.
We push on and some 10 kilometres down the way some strange figures come into view on the road ahead.
We get closer and they are Buddhist pilgrims from Gansu Province, slowly making their pilgrimage to Lhasa on foot. One of them stoops down and lies prostrate on the tarmac every third step. This is going to take them a while.
On occasion we glimpse yurts off in the distance.
Ten or more kilometres later we see a couple of yurts a kilometer off. The way they're pitched in the grasslands next to a small lake will make too good a photo to resist. We get off the bikes and wait for the sun to come out.
This alerts the yurt owner, who emerges from the tent and starts jogging toward us. For some reason we suspect it is going to amount to a nuisance even if there is no malice, and we almost scoot. But we hold still and wait for the bloke.
He is Tibetan, just wants to talk. We chat. He invites us home for some tea.
We agree and start back with him, I leaving my bike and Brice taking his. Getting closer, we can hear his dog just going ape shit back by the yurt.
"What about the dog?" Brice asks.
"Don't worry," he says. "I'll take care of him."
By now his four-year-old daughter has also ran across the grassland to us, and the four of us walk over towards the yurt.
The dog is going ballistic. Its fur round the neck is dyed in a variety of colors, giving it a feux collar, almost circus-like. Most of the dogs we've seen are painted this way. It is ferocious. We are concerned. The man sprints over to the dog, averting disaster; it has almost freed itself from its stake. It wants nothing more than to tear into us. The man is staking the dog down just as we are outside the yurt, exchanging pleasantries with his wife and a neighbor.
I'm keeping one eye focused on meeting these people and one eye focused on the dog. Suddenly, it breaks free of the tether. "Here it comes!" I shout to Brice. The thing is peeling right at us.
"That's what I was afraid of!" Brice shouts. The owner is in hot pursuit but the canine will reach us first. It does. We're kicking with all four feet and screaming. The neighbor and wife are desperately shoving themselves in-between us and the dog. Adrenaline is flowing. Kicking kicking kicking at the damn thing. Now the owner's got the dog by the scruff -- just barely -- and he screams at us: "Get in the tent! Get in the tent! Right now!"
We're inside the tent now but not really at ease. Is the beast going to come bursting through the entrance? Apparently the man's got the thing staked down pretty good. I take a peek outside and it's even better than that: the man has tied the dog's legs together.
The tent is lavishly decorated with Buddhist ornaments. We sit on the floor and sip yak tea. It's okay. In the corner of the tent is a very tiny framed picture of the "D.L." Our chat is brief as their Mandarin is sketchy and our Tibetan is non-existent. Still it's a worthwhile experience and we're thankful for it.
The stronger two of the Chinese cyclists have caught up to us and spotted my bike on the road. They stop there to wait for us. Seeing them, we bid the Tibetans adieu. Taking a portrait of the neighbor and the yurt man, and a parting shot of the dog, we walk back to the road.
The four of us cycle the remaining distance into Tuotuohe, the bridge into which marks the headwaters of the Yangtze river.
Gong Jianping is way behind so we hunker down in a Hui restaurant and order up a ton of food. Surely this will be the day's destination.
Jianping arrives and he argues otherwise. Although it's already 5 pm, there is still plenty of daylight and we've got warm, tranquil weather. Why not cycle 20 or so more clicks and stop at the first "dao ban" (road crew station) we see?
So with full bellies we set out on the road yet again. I'm going to hammer. I am not keen on putting in 20 more clicks today. But whatever. If I'm doing it then I'm going to make quick work out of this. Middle chain ring all the way up this small pass. It feels good to be alone and out front for a while. After some time I wait for Brice and the two of us proceed up this lush valley, dotted with yak and sheep.
We see a dao ban and call in. These people are now all Tibetan -- no Han Chinese among them. That's a first. They speak fine Mandarin. The guy in charge informs me they don't have accommodations. Later, he warms up a bit and says he'll figure something out. By the time our Chinese friends have arrived he's agreed to open their dance hall to us to sleep in. It's plenty comfortable.
As I have been in having tea and chatting with some of the leaders, Brice has been rounded up by a posse of ten-year-olds. They are very smart and polite. They want us to play basketball; the workers have a court rigged up in the back. The three other cyclists have landed up; they and Brice entertain the kids' request. Road workers have also returned by now and soon a three-on-three tournament is in motion.
Meanwhile one of the kids has dragged me back to his home to get a pump for the basketball. His dad is pretty excited and before I know it I'm inside drinking yak tea. The kid leaves and comes back with a dry, meaty yak femur bone. He places this on the table in front of me, along with a knife, and yells with sincere glee, "Here's some yak. Here's a knife. Go ahead and cut yourself some!" Every time you're in a new culture there's only one way to proceed: take the bull by the horns. With some difficulty I hack off a chunk of meat. I probably chew that for 15 minutes before finally spitting it out discretely.
Time to see about the basketball game. The kid and I head out there and Brice and the guys are winded. This is the highest altitude basketball of our lives. I step in for Brice, who's been putting in a strong hustle, and join two of the other cyclists. Inexplicably, I've got energy in spades. But the Tibetans are good and they dominate the Chinese and white guys.
The game kind of fizzles out as the outsiders wane, and we walk away from the court. I look up and notice an assemblage of prayer flags and a small temple on the hill above us. "What is that?" I ask the ten year old.
"It's where we go to pray. Want to go see it?" Again, take the bull by the horns. I still am not tuckered and the temperature is not too cold. We drop in to get his father and brother, and the three of them, Brice and myself hike up in twilight to the temple. The father explains that it needs to be circumnavigated thrice clockwise, and we start doing just that when the two kids break into a running race around it. I chase after them. Where's this energy coming from?
The five of us walk back down to the house and drink tea and eat biscuits. The family brings out its VCD player and treats us to American pop music, a crap Steven Segal movie, an Indian flick and a karaoke CD of Tibetan folk songs in Tibetan and Mandarin. I notice that the kids are eager to sing along in both languages, such is their assimilation. We also make note of a large Mao Zedong portrait on the wall.
The father and mother are home-schooling these boys, aged 10 and 11. One boy will learn Chinese characters and romanised spelling ("pinyin") -- with an eye toward picking up English later, the other boy will learn to read and write Tibetan.
Exhausted, we excuse ourselves and retire to the dance hall, where our Chinese colleagues are also arriving from dinners hosted by other homes in the compound.
The boy's father has insisted that we return in the morning to eat our fill and say goodbye.