It’s Sunday night and we’re breezing by the Forbidden City on a pair of Flying Pigeons—a brand of bike iconic of the Cultural Revolution, graciously lent to us by our CouchSurfing host. We’re heading north after an evening of Chinese Acrobatics, winding our way through green tree-lined boulevards, magically lit in the hours between evening and night. We make our way rather effortlessly now, finally accustomed to bike-riding etiquette in Beijing (i.e. follow the crowds, not the traffic lights, swerve to the left around bikers going the wrong way down the street, use your bell liberally). We move to the right to let motorized vehicles pass, glide through intersections, then finally stop to consult our map.
Much of the day has consisted of the same routine: maneuvering between stopping buses and overloaded bicycles (carrying everything from dogs and birds to mattresses and half a grocery store), taking in the scenery (and surprising greenery—though we are told it remains green by diverting water from surrounding villages) of Beijing, stopping to gain our bearings, the continuing in a similar fashion.
Monday. We set out again for the Temple of Heaven. We head south, pray for the thunderclouds to roll past us, and arrive at our destination. After a few hours taking in the sites, we are ready to get back on our bikes. Our next planned destination: the pearl and silk markets. We head north, then east, along the old city wall. We stop to play at a Chinese exercise station and Mark is cajoled into a game of Chinese hackie sack (this “hackie sack” consisting of a group of colourful features weighted with rubber and washers). We cycle past the old city wall, and are carried by the road south, the opposite direction that we want to go in. We wind our way along a highway and a canal to the nearest underpass, head back north, follow a line of cars into what seems like a railway yard, carry our bikes through and underpass, stop to buy some street foot, cross a tiny foot bridge, and end up on “Alien’s Street” surrounded by Cyrillic shop names and wondering if we’ve accidentally returned to Russia (this are of Beijing is, apparently, the one area where, if visibly not Chinese, you’ll first be addressed in Russian, not English). By now too much time has passed and we abandon our market destination. Instead we wander into an unexpected park, balanced and stunning in design. We get lost in rock formations and greenery, then hop back on our bikes to head towards home.
The sun is setting as we head northeast, through the financial district. We wind around a round-about, and our attention is directed to the clanging of cymbals and the beating of drums across the street. There, in front of a gargantuan Bank of China building, a group of middle-aged and older women are dancing with fans. We join the crowd of older Chinese men that has gathered to watch. Strange, we think, that they’ve chosen this location. Perhaps they are all bank employees, Mark muses. We continue along are way, and go no more than a block and a half before we hear the same clanking and beating, and then see the familiar colourful flags dancing by. We slow down and an older man motions to Mark to get of his bike. He hands him a flag and pushes him into the line-up of dancing women. I, along with the other ageing Chinese spectators, are amused to watch this rather rhythm-less white man attempt to imitate his fellow dancers. He makes it once through the circuit and is ready to go, to the winking of Chinese women as he passes.
It is dark now, as yesterday. We approach the Forbidden City from the east this time, though the misty-lit streets begin to fade into one another. We stop and consult our map once again, then wind our way home.
Encouraged by the rain, on Tuesday we take a break from our now beloved Flying Pigeons, and race downtown to pay a visit to the beloved Chairman Mao. We reach Tiananmen Square 15 minutes before the Mausoleum closes, sprint around to the entrance, and are herded through in less than 5 minutes, catching only a quick glimpse of an eerily lit barely-human looking figure enclosed in glass. From the south-west corner of Tiananmen we see a strange looking pavilion with a large “British Colombia Canada” sign hanging above. Curious, we pay the entrance fee (which used to be free for Canadians, but is no longer), head inside and are greeted by 2 Mounties. At their sight, Mark and I start laughing, and they immediately remark that we must be Canadian. We start chatting and discover that they are, in fact, real Mounties, one from Newmarket and the other a graduate of the University of Waterloo. Small world, indeed.
Wednesday. We bike north towards the Olympic Village. The reason, in many ways, that this city is so clean and new looking, lies in this quickly approaching event, and the anticipation is tangible in the air, heavy like smog (which has, at least slightly, temporarily subsided from Beijing’s skies). We see the Bird’s Nest (as Olympic Stadium is known) and the Aqua Cube (the Aquatics Centre) from a distance, though construction is still underway and we can’t actually bike down the main strip. Instead, we circle the outside of the complex, a sprawling complex of hotels, venues, parking lots, parks. We happen upon what we later find out is the “Ethnic Minorities Park”—an amusement park like complex that is supposed to honour China’s minorities. A mosque-looking shopping centre, with mini-skirt clad waitresses, confuses more than anything else.
Thursday. We leave the bikes home once again and set out early to the Great Wall. We somehow manage to get there using a combination of public transit and bartering skills. We hike 12km from Jinshaling to Simatai, a section of the wall that hasn’t been restored. Crumbling stairways and steep climbs tire us out, though the view is breathtaking. Mark falls asleep at 7pm and sleeps until morning.
Saturday. Today we give our Flying Pigeons their biggest test, as we set out to bike to the Summer Palace, 12km outside the city. We get off to a rocky start, as our early route leads us past an exhibition centre where various highways seem to converge, and bike lanes suddenly disappear. We find ourselves in a chaotic mass of pedestrians catching buses and cars set on getting past them, and a few other bikers who’ve also found themselves suddenly without a lane. We make it through, carry our bikes over an overpass, and are happy to be cycling along a relatively quiet canal. We pass the 2nd, 3rd and 4th ring roads, and, after 1h15, we arrive at the Palace. Unfortunately, no bikes are allowed inside, so we continue on foot to explore this massive summer complex of Chinese emperors past. After 3 hours on foot, stunning scenery and incredible views, we are happy to be back on our bikes, heading back into the city. We detour to Jingshan Park, behind the Forbidden City, endure one last uphill climb, and take in one last view of the city.
We return our bikes for the last time, with some sadness, to their lot in the parking garage. Things bikes have been, no doubt, a key shaper of our Beijing experience. They have allowed us into streets and hutongs, unexpected corners of the city, places unreachable by public transit or on foot. They have given us a glimpse of Beijing as seen by many local commuters, as perhaps still the most popular means of transit, allowing us to appreciate the order in the chaos of Beijing traffic. They have been vehicles (both literally and figuratively) into the life of this city, a city of surprises and contradictions, a city that the world is soon to know a little bit better.
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