Today we descend to Lhasa, the endpoint of the first leg of the trip.
The road is much less passable than we expect. Granted there are no cars, but the road is in a state of upheaval with construction equipment and earthen works.
The river positively surges down this gorge. It is amazing that the engineers contemplate a road in this route. We stop to talk with the many construction crews working along the route.
There is also rain. The rivers have reached swelling-to-overflow. Many bridges are out and have yet to be replaced. We are forced through several awkward river crossings. These are two-stage affairs: first bring the panniers across, held aloft. Cross back to get the bikes.
Having crossed the river, bags must be refitted and shoes emptied and tied. Land cruisers gun their motors to get through these rivers.
All the while the scenery is increasingly of villages nestled in ravines that come off both sides of the river gorge we’re following down.
By the end of the day the road has flattened, the river has widened and calmed down, and we are in agricultural land. Now there is genuine excitement: Lhasa is at hand. A provincial capital, good food and a major destination. The fittest among us pour on the juice, pushing the cycles down the wide, tree-lined tarmac through the farmland.
Before long there is a sign overhead. “Welcome to Lhasa.” This is an occasion for a group photo and much celebration.
Pushing on, there is no more sprinting. The urban grids bring relief from the anaerobic effort. There are a few mis-turns as we hone in on the obvious target: Potala Gong, or Potala Palace in English. But reach it we do, still with light to photograph the event. We line all the bikes up in front of the palace, and assemble for several group photos. This is a triumph of the highest order. There are few as sweet as this.
From Potala Gong, the mission is to find the guest house of our telephone contact, the man we called from Golmud. We find the place, but there is no vacancy. The staff recommend another place. We go there and do find vacancy. It is very tight, the bikes barely fit in with the humans, but it will do for tonight. We can find better lodging tomorrow with more time.
The hostel is full of young people, from various walks of life, all excited to be here. Among them are a woman from Guangdong and another from Shanghai, on research trips.
The next step is a celebratory meal with the men. We invite our Guangdong and Shanghai friends along.
We have, as a group of Sino-American friends and cyclists, matched out of serendipity, cycled some 1200 kilometres over two weeks, overcoming all the obstacles: in the first instance natural, and a close second political. The cops haven’t stopped us. It is a totally different experience from the worst parts of our 1995 cross-China ride.