We awake to good weather. Staff from the roadhouse accompany us outside for the ritual cycle-luggage mounting ceremony.
The guys set off ahead of us as we try to round up a postmark or some other work-unit stamp in this place. No luck.
These mountains were stunning yesterday in twilight and bad weather; they are even better now, bathed in morning sunlight, their peaks swabbed in clouds. It is like an Alpine meadow.
We're rolling now but there isn't much downhill this morning, despite the fact that we crossed a pass last night getting to the Tibetan house. The map calls for another, higher, pass today. So we have that to look forward to.
An hour or so into the ride, we're cycling along a river bank. Slowly we see a figure emerge on the road ahead coming toward us. As the figure takes on more definition, we see the outlines of panniers. It is a long-distance cyclist.
Piet Nelissen is happy to see the likes of us. He'd seen our comrades earlier on but language was a barrier; we are some blokes he can talk to, and talk he does. We greet and set the bikes by the road, taking out some food stores and perching on an embankment. An hour goes by as we talk to Piet about all manner of things, but mostly the road. Piet has come from Kashgar, the exact journey we're planning to do, only in reverse.
"Yes, the road was bad," Piet confirms. "The runoff was so bad that the road was impassable due to mud slides, rock slides and swollen rivers. Therefore I saw very few vehicles for part of the distance. I don't like people, so this was a great pleasure." Piet explained how he would cross rivers in three or four trips, each time taking a piece of luggage and finally his bike.
"For some time I cycled with a Swedish guy but his idea of cycling was to get on a truck when he felt tired. That's not what I do, so we lost contact. There were two Japanese guys I passed along the way, each going toward Kashgar. They were about two or three days apart from each other."
We pressed Piet for details on food, weather and road conditions. What about the bike, did it hold up? The tires? The rims? Did you have the right clothing? Were you warm enough? Like most cyclists -- but unlike us -- Piet is loaded down quite severely. He has large front and rear panniers and a handlebar bag. His combined weight is tremendous; it is near impossible to heft his bike. The contrast with our own bikes could not be more stark. We have rear panniers only and another bag on top of the rear rack, and small handlebar bags. Fully loaded, our bikes can be carried up and down stairs. That is intentional and it's the product of hard-won experience and discipline. We have been merciless about reigning in the weight.
Each of us carries a -12 C sleeping bag (Mountain Equipment "Classic Dragon"), a Thermarest Ultralite sleeping pad, fleece hat / socks / mittens, fleece pants and jacket, fleece vest, cycling gloves, polypropylene top, cycling jersey, 2 pairs of cycling shorts, cycling pants, 3 pairs of socks, lightweight shorts, Gore Tex jacket, balaclava, camera, film, 4 Camelbak 3-liter water bladders. Between us we have split up: 7.5-pound Mountain Hardware "Trango Assault" tent, ground cloth, Pur water filter, spare tire, spare tubes, all-in-one bike tool (Topeak "Alien"), spare spokes/cables/housings, cassette remover, chain oil, maps, Tibet guidebook. It is more than we had in 1995 because the climate is colder. We didn't take a tent in 1995, our sleeping bags were ultra light but 0 C, we had no sleeping pads and fewer cold-weather clothes and gear.
Still, we are far-and-away lighter than any cyclist we meet. Including Piet. He endured such depravation on the road from Kashgar that he stocks up well on food now, always carrying plenty in the panniers. Piet has cycled all the way from Belgium, traversing Europe and crossing Turkey, then Iran, India and Pakistan. Western Tibet has been the hardest of all, he says. So let's focus on that.
What about dogs? "There were some, one of them got his teeth in me. It was just a warning bite." Piet is turning out to be a bit of an animal lover; he prefers them to people. But people are just what the doctor ordered for a guy who's been cycling for eight months solo. He is clearly happy to have some human contact. We tell him there are no lack of dogs between here and Golmud, but he'll be fine if he just dismounts and confronts them.
We've already blown an hour. We have a pass to cross and we are supposed to make it to Damxiong tonight, deliciously close to Lhasa -- just two or three days' cycling, depending on the final 100 kilometers. We've been told the last 100 clicks are under construction and traffic is diverted over a dirt road, a pass that enters Lhasa from another direction. This would add a day to our cycling.
So it's adios to Piet and “hello Tibetan tarmac”. It was a pleasure to make his acquaintance.
Just a little further on, the road leaves the river and there are switchbacks in view: this has "pass" written all over it. Feeling good, I sprint up this bastard and, reaching the summit, put the bike against an embankment. I scramble above where the prayer flags are strewn and compose a photo. I'll get one of Brice reaching the top, with flags in the foreground. It’s rare that I beat him to the top.
The weather is superb today and it makes all the difference for our outlook and enjoyment. Everything in the foreground is green. Beyond that are stunning mountains, grayish rock topped with white glaciers and snow. It is fabulous scenery. On occasion there are herds of yak fording or soaking in a stream. There are occasionally Buddhist structures, completely alien to us, so I cannot describe them. We pose next to one for a photo with a group of people who've just emerged from a car in front of us.
We are getting some fantastic downhill from the top of the pass, and it just keeps coming. At this rate we'll make Damxiong in no time.
Gobs of downhill kilometers ask for the top chain ring. We comply.
Pedaling down the highway at a good clip, I notice something off balance in the rear of the bicycle. At first it's unsettling but I put it down to a loose fastener or some other innocuous strap. Then a sharp noise rudely delivers the news that something has gone wrong. I give a yell out to Brice to alert him that I've been yanked from the fast lane, otherwise he'll be several clicks down the road before realizing I'm not there.
Off the bike, I see that the bolt holding the left-hand side of the rack to the frame, down by the axle, has come off. The weight of the pannier on this side has pushed the rack into the spokes. Luckily, there is no damage.
Brice stays with the bikes as I begin to walk along the road looking for the missing bolt. On the right-hand side of the road there is a carnival of some kind. Tents pitched around the area look exactly like those we saw at the horse-racing festival in Naqu. Maybe this is another such festival.
Unable to find the bolt, I return to Brice and find that a little boy has descended on him, promising to lead us to food. The boy came out of the grasslands whereupon the tents are pitched. The boy is keen to bring us back with him, undoubtedly we'll be heading to his father's concession stand, as it were.
We ask the youngster to hold his fire while we figure out what to do about the rack. "Let me check my handlebar bag," Brice says. He thinks there are a few extra bolts that came with it, which he hasn't used but brought along nonetheless. "Try this," he says.
I check the bolt. The thread and length are perfect. It goes right into the rack and threads neatly into the frame. Nobody is worse for the wear.
The kid leads us over to the tents and sure enough to his parents' tent, where we order up some yak dumplings and tea. Everything tastes good. The guy next to us is ripping yak meat off the bone with his teeth. I guess it's how we eat chicken back in the States.
In the middle of the tents a large crowd, perhaps 300 or more people, is gathered in a big circle watching some spectacle. The people, almost all Tibetans, have come in from the countryside for this festival. They are wearing their Sunday finest, in a manner of speaking. Men wear vests with embroidered designs. Their hair is pulled back in braids or wrapped in a coil around the head, like Uhuru in Star Trek. Many of the women are wearing full-length silken dresses with colorful, woven aprons and a chain of ornaments strung around the waist. The thin air ensures that light is crisp and clear on these people, and we get excellent photos of them.
There are many people milling about outside of the ring of spectators and, as often is the case, some gather around the bicycles. One guy is making it clear that he wants to ride it. People are here having fun; who am I to pour cold water on this sentiment? I offer him the bike and he gives it a whirl. Tibetans in general seem not to be lacking in size vis-à-vis Americans. The bike is a good fit for this guy. Toe clips, however, are a nightmare and I urge him to ignore them.
Four gents are perched on a ledge watching things from a distance. They wear the coolest shawls, bright orange dress shirts and stylish derby hats.
We penetrate the outer ring of spectators and see that people are watching a rock-lifting contest. Some big Tibetan guy is trying to get a giant boulder up onto his knee, then to his chest, and finally over his head before getting out of the way when it comes smashing to the earth. Sitting on the grass within the circle of onlookers is Yu Fangkun; Gong Jianping is just feet from the weight lifter taking photos. I wonder if the locals find this intrusive.
Brice pushes in for the grass by Fangkun and I follow. We are allowed through and set the bikes next to Fangkun's. "Heeeeey!" Fangkun bellows. We ask him about Gao Ceng. "He didn't want to stay here. So he continued on to Damxiong." We get some excellent photos of the crowd and the contestants before the whole thing breaks up.
The four of us get separated in the dispersing crowd and I head for the main road. There, a Tibetan woman calls me to her. She is beautifully dressed and wears a derby. She wants something but doesn't speak Mandarin, so we can't communicate very easily. She gestures for the camera and I hand it to her. She refuses it and keeps gesturing. Okay. She wants me to take a picture of her? I can't explain that it isn't a Polaroid, she won’t be seeing this photo anytime soon. She keeps insisting. I bring the camera to my eye to compose a shot and she starts waving her hands in disapproval. Oops, too late, I've got the photo now, but no clue as to what she's after.
Brice and I re-connect and start back down the highway. It's likely that Fangkun and Jianping have pushed off. We can't be too far from Damxiong now.
We are in a more habitable, lush part of the plateau now. Gone is the uncompromising wind-swept plain, the high pass, the arid basin. We are descending through a green valley and there are villages tucked away in the hills above us. Rather than seeking out the next dao ban or roadside inn, it is these villages we should be staying in. That would go a long way toward enhancing our cultural experience. But it's also been advised that we stay away from such temptations -- perhaps our presence in a village will bring unwelcome attention from the authorities.
A radio tower and a strip of low-lying buildings on the road ahead give away Damxiong. We're practically there now.
Rolling into town we slow down to have a good look for the guys or their bikes. It's impossible to know where they've stopped. But Gao Ceng is standing at the next intersection to intercept us.
"Have you been waiting here long?" we inquire.
"No, just started walking out here."
"When did you get to Damxiong?"
"About four hours ago."
He takes us to the truck stop hostel he's found for us, with the last rays of a still-bright sun illuminating the white peaked backdrop.
The true gentleman, Gao Ceng is there. He's a considerate, kind, mild-mannered but stern character. He's the top athlete in the cycling club back home, finishing seventh place in a national triathlon last year. But he doesn't wear it on his sleeve; if Fangkun and Jianping hadn't told us, we'd never had known. Gao Ceng is newly married. He is a salesman for a pharmaceutical manufacturer back in Hangzhou.
He opens up quite a bit whenever we start cracking jokes. Our sense of humor is probably a bit shocking to these guys, but Gao Ceng is in stitches every time we tease Fangkun about his flatulence. In truth, Fangkun breaks no more wind than the rest of us, but we've got a running joke and we're not going to let up. Gao Ceng loves it.
We venture out to find food this night. Our reward is a hotel, where the staff are glad to see some paying customers. It now feels very much like we are getting closer to a city. Not in a city, or even a suburb, but this town simply has decent amenities.