时间：2022-09-06 02:51:18
Beijing can become a claustrophobic place if one does not substitute its concrete boulevards for nature’s green once in a while, and there is no better way to make good one’s escape than by cycling.
I was enlightened as to just how delightful this pastime can be thanks to the 2012 Bohai or Bust charity cycle ride, which did its riders the courtesy of providing a large van in which to stow their steeds for the 80 or so kilometers schlep from central Beijing to the picturesque outlying borough of Huairou.
I had brought my racing bike over on the plane from England, a once top of the range custom-built speed machine that still drew some admiring glances despite losing some of its luster over the 15 years or so I’ve had it. Still, as I had yet to invest in any Lycra, no-one, least of all myself, was under any illusions as to whether or not I was a “proper” cyclist. I had tentatively signed up for the 36km ride rather than the 76km alternative route out of an awareness of my physical condition and a desire to have enough energy to socialize the same evening.
However, it was my misfortune to have invited along an ultra-long-distance running masochist, who over the course of the outward bus journey managed to convince me to have a shot at the longer ride. “It’ll be easy,”he said. “I’ve run further than that.”
Once we’d arrived, decamped and hit the road, I immediately developed a gear problem, ensuring I could only use the top two cogs on my rear chain ring. This meant I was incapable of generating any pace on the flat or downhill. Consequently I breezed over the first major incline only to be crushed by the length and gradient of the descent, as I was fully aware I would have to negotiate it on the run home. Still, the clear, sun-kissed views of softly undulating hills, lustrous orchards and rugged farms were breathtaking, and far removed from my previous experiences of Beijing’s encircling countryside.
Having a light bike stuck in an easy gear soon proved to be a boon, as the road turned upwards once more at the bottom of the descent. I began catching riders, sucking them in and spitting them out a la Bradley Wiggins, until I fell into step with a fellow Brit. “I remember this climb,” he said, as we labored on the lower slopes, “it’s a bastard, and it gets really steep.”
The man did not lie, and the pain of sharply ascending 700 meters without any training is something I will not forget in a hurry. Conversation dried up and instead we stared down our front wheels, my new companion explaining that if you can build up some miles in your leg muscles, there are a number of gorgeous rides within hitting distance of Beijing.
Unfortunately, accessing these pleasant jaunts means taking the infamous Jingmi Expressway, a primary conduit for heavy-duty vehicles. Naturally, devil-may-care riders bathe in the slipstreams of hulking coal trucks to emulate the speeds of serious cyclists.
The outlying district of Shunyi is another haven for the cyclist, including numerous loops that can be undertaken through the Beijing Riviera of ersatz British and French country houses built along the grubby river that flanks the city’s northeast rim. These cycling routes pass the pony clubs, polo fields and golf courses frequented by Beijing’s new elite. Stray too far from this paradise, however, and you soon find yourself in the badlands, amid burning tires, gravel-strewn roads and wide-eyed locals.
Beijing’s municipal area is roughly half the size of Belgium, which means that any of these adventures, unless you travel part of the way in a vehicle, will involve a 140km round trip thus, I deduced, I had a long way to go before I could really enjoy recreational cycling in the suburbs of China’s capital city.
My legs aching, I suffered alone on the return climb of the Bohai marathon, only just making it through the remainder of the ride, falling off the bike at the finish and licking my sweat-cracked lips. Some time elapsed before I began to wonder as to the whereabouts of my masochistic running friend.
Shortly after, I received a text message, the wording of which cannot be repeated here but that essentially revealed that his bike had fallen to bits and he needed rescuing in a minivan. I set off to collect him, now the last man on the road, and found him pushing his bicycle up the final climb.
“I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life,” he said, adding that the ride had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Needless to say, I was quick to remind him whose idea the whole escapade had been.
“Perhaps you can run next time.”