In the Land of Confucian -- Foreigners in China

Man and the Great Wall Series by Scott Urban

Week 6 (October 3, 1997) -- Wing Tip

"He who has not been to the Great Wall, is not a great man." -- Chinese Proverb

Introduction: Scott Urban went to China in 1994 to work at the China Daily newspaper in Beijing, where he stayed until 1997. While in China, Scott contracted a severe form of bicycling mania, which manifested itself in his 6,000-kilometer bicycle journey to Xinjiang in 1995 with friend Brice Minnigh.

In the Fall of 1996, Scott Urban and another friend William Lindesay spent every weekend possible cycling to the Great Wall of China to find lost sections of the Wall, with nothing more than curiosity, bicycles, and a map of the greater Beijing area. The trips involved comparatively big distances and tough conditions, but the payoffs were rich: in store could be anything from a swath of rubble to a grand section of Ming Dynasty ramparts with intact towers and inscribed tablets. This fall we invite you to join the ride and see the China that's not usually seen.

Scott currently resides in Denver, Colorado, USA, and is involved in a number of China-related projects. He can be reached at rrurban@aol.com.

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October 25, Friday

Will and I met for lunch today for some excellent Sichuanese food -- fried peppers, chicken with nuts, and home-style tofu. He came from the Xinhua News Agency at one side of town, I from the China Daily on another. Among other things, we were there to discuss the weekend's ride.

Will and I were anxious to get a ride in this weekend, both of us secretly suspecting it would be the last overnighter of the year. It's getting too cold now.

"I've seen the forecast in Beijing Weekend, mate," I told him with a pained expression. "Cold front from Mongolia's blowing in." In fact, it had already arrived. Today was clear, but chilly and with gusting winds.

Will called me tonight with more news. "I just saw the forecast on CCTV, mate. Well, it's going to be clear. But it'll also be sub-zero. So bring along an extra jumper."

I was up late tonight trying to settle some bugs with my computer. I didn't pack my gear, and wondered if I would actually find the resolve to head out into the freezing pre-dawn temperatures the next morning.

October 26, Saturday

A phone call took me from deep sleep. It was pitch black outside. I knew it was Will, and I knew I wasn't riding.

"Wei," ("hello") I answered the phone.

"It's Will," he said.

"Will, I've got some bad news for you, mate."

"What's that?"

"Well, my glands are swollen and my throat's sore. I don't think it's a good idea for me to get out there this time."

"Oh, I see. You've got to take care of yourself, mate. I understand."

I continued: "Are you going to go?"

"Well, the big problem for me is spending the night up on the mountain. This time of year, it's a long night..."

Ya damn right! I thought.

"I'll just have to think it over."

Around mid-day I called Will's wife, Qi, having looked out the window to see trees blowing in the wind -- the cold Mongolian wind. Boy, did I make the right decision, I thought to myself.

Will answered the phone.

"Oh! You didn't go. You made the right decision mate!"

"Well, this is something I'm going to have to think about. You might be gone next Spring, and I'll likely be doing this alone. But I couldn't face spending 13 hours in the night up there."

"I understand fully, Will."

We agreed to be in touch mid-week, and hopefully plan for another weekend attempt at the "Oxhorn," a piece of Wall near Mutianyu -- a site we were getting pretty familiar with.

I know I should at least get in a day ride this weekend, since I haven't ridden in two weeks. But if it's cold and blowing tomorrow, I might just have to chalk it up to the end of the Wall season.

What a pity that would be, but the end is going to come one way or another. And, frankly, I doubt I'll be able to stay motivated to keep in shape during Beijing's tortuously long six-month winter. God bless this place.

Tuesday, October 29.

"Hello, mate. It's a special weekend coming up. Do you know what I'm talking about?" Will asked over the phone. He was referring to November 2, 1995, the day one year ago when Brice and I rolled into Kashgar, the holy grail of our 6,000-kilometre bicycle odyssey.

In the entire year of preparation for that ride, and during the ride itself, Kashgar was like a mythical entity.

During the summer training rides before the big ride, Brice and I were testing ourselves -- going big distances and staying out as much as we could. In completing each challenge we took on, we gradually built up a resolve to succeed in the big journey, to endure till the end -- to reach a place called Kashgar despite any obstacle.

Out on the road it seemed farcical to tell people we were going to such a faraway place.

Cycling through a village, someone would ask, "Where you guys going?"

We'd answer, "Xinjiang," referring to the giant piece of Central Asian territory belonging to China. But we might as well have said "Mars" since Xinjiang seems just as far away. What a ridiculous answer to a sincere question. But it was the truth.

Several weeks later we found ourselves crossing into what we estimated to be Xinjiang, marking a major milestone. There were no road signs or markers to tell us we'd entered Xinjiang, but we could judge from the map and the surrounding topography of mountains and desert that we had entered the region, and begun the final leg: the long march to Kashgar, all the way across the province, bordering on Pakistan.

Our entry to Central Asia would be harsh -- a baptism by fire. For the next six days, we wouldn't see a single person or roof over our heads, much less a source of food or fresh water. But that is another story, one of the greatest adventures of that journey and my life.

Once into Xinjiang, it dawned on us how far we had come, when the local people didn't seem surprised when we told them we were going to Kashgar. Finally, it was no longer a fantasy.

On Tuesday, Will called to remind me of this anniversary, suggesting that it called for a weekend ride to the Great Wall "come hell or high water," which means do it no matter how cold it is or unwilling I might be to get out of a warm bed on a chilly November morning before dawn.

Just in case principle alone wasn't enough to motivate me, Will had a more down-to-earth, Homer Simpson-esque strategy up his sleeve.

"I'll give you a choice," he said. "We can meet at the Asian Games flyover as usual or at Dunkin Donuts -- the days are getting short enough now that 6:30 (a.m., when the store opens) isn't too late for us." When Saturday morning came, the thought of supping on donuts and fresh coffee motivated me in no small measure.

Despite the dark night outside, the chill in my apartment and the nice dream I'd been torn from, I got out of bed, packed my bag, fastened it to the bike, put long underwear on over my cycling shorts, put my ultrafleece on, fastened the helmet on my head, and headed out into the chilly, dark, November, Beijing morning.

The night before, a friend had accompanied me to the grocery store to buy supplies for the weekend. I took a few items from the shelves and then headed to the bakery department.

"Have you got any chocolate croissants?" I asked the saleswoman.

Reaching into the bins, she came up with just one.

Seeing that her bins were not well stocked, I said, "I'll take all the bean paste fritters you have." She hesitated and came up with several. "Okay," I said. "I'll take all the raisin bread you have." This is the least popular item -- it's bland and dry; there's always some of it left in the bins. She grabbed several bags of the stuff, not sure if that's what I wanted. "That's right," I said. "I want it all."

I stopped her before she could write out a bill, and pointed to another section. "I'll take a pound of those, please" I said, pointing at the fig bars. My friend stood in slight amazement or disgust -- I'm not sure which.

I next went to another counter in the store and asked for four king-size Snickers bars. These are imported, each featuring a holographic sticker on the wrapper as if it were some kind of consumer durable.

"Is this all for your trip?" my friend asked.

"Yes. My cycling partner really likes these."

I met Will at Dunkin Donuts at 6:30 am and he had my coffee on the table already. There were also double-chocolate-cake donuts, blueberry cake donuts, raspberry-filled donuts, maple icing donuts, vanilla icing donuts, apple fritters, cinnamon rolls and cream-filled long johns. I guess it's no wonder that when we reached our usual first snack break of the day -- at the edge of the North China plain, before the first ascent into the mountains, it was difficult to force down even a single fig bar.

That stop was also when I had to pay heed to the cold. I had been cold all morning, having failed to nail that delicate balance between being too exposed to the elements and protected too much from them. I favor erring on the side of the former.

Will and I were going to a piece of Great Wall called the Oxhorn, named for its peculiar shape -- a place where the Wall makes a big U-turn on the side of a mountain.

On the way there, clear skies afforded us views of Great Wall along a vast portion of our route. It was the first time we'd been bestowed such views, since they'd been clouded on previous trips.

We turned onto the road to the village from which we'd ascend the Wall.

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