Tag Archives: cycling

Laowai Lushang! (Foreigners on the road!)


Posted by Patrick Okens

Nov. 24 – Beijing

“Hooooly mother of Mao, what have I gotten myself into?” Ahead of me, Daniel smartly steered his bike between two transit buses while I clumsily veered back out of the traffic and onto the sidewalk. Barely out of the apartment complex and dropped already. Ca commence mal.

It started yesterday, in fact. Daniel is an avid cyclist and in his salad days was a top amateur racer in France. He’s a very fit 61 now, rides wherever he can, and was determined to have me experience cycling in Beijing. He made some calls and found me a rental at the Trek shop in the embassy district, 30km away. 200 Yuan (about $30) got me a slightly too small bike and a slightly too large helmet. It was a basic Trek Alpha, aluminium frame, Sora components, flat pedals, and slightly undermaintained. All the same, it would do the job. The helmet’s size wasn’t a problem, since I would be wearing a tuque underneath to ward off the zero degree temperatures. While the bike was being readied I looked around at the store’s wares and gawked at the Trek Madone 6.1’s price tag of nearly $13,000. Performance cycling in China (the UCI Pro Tour held the inaugural Tour of Beijing in October) is growing quickly but is still very much a rich man’s game. Prices overall are similar to what one might pay in the West.

Getting back home should have been straightforward. Forget the crowded subway and hail a cab. Nothing doing, not even with the help of the Trek store clerks. Fortunately, they made some calls and soon a minivan appeared with a driver willing to take me home for 150 Yuan ($22). It was dark and took several wrong turns and phone calls with additional instructions before we arrived. Of course, the driver then wanted more money, claiming he’d driven further than agreed. My memories of being Shanghaied were fresh. After raised voices, mutual incomprehension, and slight bicycle tug of war at the elevator, the matter was over. I didn’t pay any more, but there were bad feelings all round.

Back to the ride story. If cycling has a “sink or swim” equivalent, this surely was it. We had avoided the morning rush, but in a megacity of 15 million, “off-peak” is still a lot of people on the move. So the first few kilometers were stressful. Left-handers through high volume intersections; sudden accelerations to get ahead of slow trucks; red lights optional, and occasionally a bad idea; dodging oncoming wrong-way vehicles; hearing the horn and engine of an approaching bus behind you. Thinking about what could happen doesn’t help in such situations. Focusing of the task at hand does.

After blue skies yesterday the smog was back after all. The U.S. Embassy reading was “very unhealthy” and would rise to “hazardous” during the day. Daniel said that normally he would not have ridden under those conditions, but it was now or never for me. I’ll say this, though. If you’re willing to risk life, lung and limb riding out of Beijing, it’s great in the countryside. The roads are good, wide and quite free of traffic. First destination was Xishan (West mountain) 3km at 10% of steep, shoelace switchbacks on clean concrete slabs all the way up. I got about two-thirds of the way before the drooling, phlegm-spitting, out-of-the-saddle, square-pedaling started. “Okens in difficulty” indeed. I can blame all sorts of things (and will), but the end result was Daniel casually pointing out various sights, as he dropped me. A feeble “ggnnhh” was my only response.

The view from Xishan was as good as a smoggy late November day would allow – mediocre. However, there were plenty of vigorous dog-walking seniors at the summit with whom Daniel could chat. The fast, full-on-braking, sharp-twisting descent took us past cedar plantations, rusty pine needles blanketing the ground. We heard chatty magpies, late-crowing roosters and even a small herd of goats. As the road leveled out, there was a broken down farmhouse, a cemetery, and a new, shockingly western-looking neighborhood – all skylights, slanting roofs, courtyards and driveways. We stopped for a snack of salty pastries at a roadside stall in a village. It was below zero, factoring in the wind chill, and we warmed our hands on the shopkeeper’s griddle.

I had made full use of my sports wardrobe (5 layers on top), but 3+ hours and 75km is a long time to spend in the elements. Breathing was no longer my only problem. Long-neglected Iliotibial bands also started to complain, and my speed started to slacken. On the plains north of Beijing we went alongside dark, partially frozen rivers with anglers on the banks, dodged the thankfully well-behaved stray dogs, and zipped past all two, three and four-wheeled traffic out there. The finale was food, of course. No Tim Horton’s for us, but rather a shop serving big bowls of beef and noodles.

In honour of American Thanksgiving (in any case we were still ravenous), dinner tonight was delivery Domino’s pizza and apple pie, all washed down with Great Wall cabernet sauvignon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed. Tomorrow I might have to go hunting for replacement ligaments and muscles. I hear you can get them for cheap in China, like almost everything else.


Citizen Okens does Cyclocross


Posted by Patrick Okens

In keeping with cycling superstitions, my unlucky race number is upside down on purpose. All photos by Colin Darling

Somehow, cruelly, I’ve ended up in the front row at the start line. Behind me, some two-dozen riders ready to tackle the New Brighton cyclocross race: 40 minutes of semi-off-road cycling on a short, twisty circuit in a park on east Vancouver’s waterfront.

I’m fairly fit, and know how to ride a road bike for long distances, but this is a different challenge. Cyclocross is kinetic in a way I’m not. It’s up, down, left, right, start, stop, grass and gravel. It is my first time doing this and I’ll be out of my comfort zone. I suppose that’s why I’m here – about to be run over like a Lada on the Autobahn. And I’m not even racing with the best guys. The “citizen” category is a wonderful marketing euphemism. It makes me and my competitors, the newbies and under-skilled average joes, feel better about the fact that we won’t be flying around the course like the stronger riders racing later.

I rode with running shoes and flat pedals. The true mark of a novice competitor!

The all-important remount

We’re off and it’s remarkably civilized (we’re citizens, after all). The pack rapidly spreads out into a single file as we negotiate a brief paved stretch, then bunny-hop a curb onto a grass uphill. Cresting the rise, we get ready to deal with the “cross” of cyclocross: two short barriers that we have to run over carrying our bikes. Momentum is key – no braking here. You dismount and hit the grass running. Bike up, jump over, run, jump over, bike down. And now the crucial part. Hands on the bars and a flying leap onto the seat, landing on the inside of your thigh rather than any other part of your anatomy. Flat tires are easier to change than flat gonads.

Far right, a racer with a proper bike carry. Centre, a rider plows through in the saddle. Me, left, doing it the least efficient way possible.

Riding dirty

As adults, we lose our sense of play. Predictability and comfort win out as we age, and so we turn to physical activities that emphasize those traits: jogging, swimming laps, spin classes, yoga, walking. Cyclocross is BMX for grownups, basically. There’s nothing very predictable about  launching yourself at speed into thick dirt, tires spraying sand in your face as they fishtail, pedaling furiously to keep momentum. The better riders make it all the way through the beach. One guy loses his balance and keels over in slow motion in front of me. I eventually bog down, dismount, and run.  I’m not terribly good at riding in the dirt, but boy is it fun! My tip of the day – do something childish, like a somersault. I dare you not to smile.

Grit and Grind

The fun comes at a price. It is more of an individual battle than a race. There is very little passing or being passed, once the pecking order has been established by fitness and skill.  With  two laps down and three to go,  breath becomes ragged and the old familiar burning sensation comes back to the legs. Cyclocross isn’t a very zen-like activity. Push hard up a steep hill for ten seconds, kick into a heavier gear as you barrel down the other side, flick your handlebar slightly to avoid a pothole, grip the brakes to get around a hairpin turn, ride into the dirt, dismount, push, remount. You try to do each lap better than the last, but at the same time fatigue erodes your ability to think ahead and plot your course. What was relatively easy the first time through can become preposterously difficult as the race ends. We cross the finish line without any particular fanfare, coast to a stop, chat with other racers while catching our breath. I go find a spray hose to wash the mud and grass off my bike. Hot chocolate, pastries, and conversation follow.

New Brighton Park

In keeping with the mud-spattered image of cyclocross, Sunday morning was awful. The rain showers held off during the race but the sky remained dull gray.  The venue is one of my favourite places in Vancouver. What makes New Brighton park so great is how it blends the stunning views of  Burrard Inlet and the North Shore mountains with an industrial landscape. Freighters and railway cars are being loaded noisily nearby, and the hulking Ironworkers Memorial Bridge looms in the middle distance. For me, the jarring contrasts between the natural and built environment make the park more appealing.  Year-round, it is a destination for joggers, soccer players, dog walkers. In the summer, its outdoor pool is alive with children splashing about. While you’re focused on racing, none of the scenery matters, of course. But there are worse ways, and places, to spend a Sunday morning.