Travel Reference
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man pulled out his rusty box of tools and lubricants, fixed my chain, and then held up two grimy fingers to
signal his price. I assumed he meant twenty yuan—which is less than three dollars. So I gave him a fifty-
yuan bill and waited for change. He stared at the bill in bewilderment. It turned out that he'd in fact meant
two yuan—which is roughly twenty-two cents. In American bike shop terms, I'd handed him five hundred
bucks for a twenty-dollar repair job.
What a bargain, I thought, reaching back into my pocket for some coins. We rode off, and about a hun-
dred yards later the chain popped again. I gave up and walked the bike back to the rental place. In retro-
spect, I suppose that repair job was worth almost exactly twenty-two cents.
Anyway, this was the sum total of our preparation. Tomorrow—as a little warm-up, to ease our way into
the hard stuff coming later—we'll be cycling thirty-five hilly miles.
WE wake the next morning still feeling the effects of last night's beer. We all pile groggily into the support
van. It drives us a few hours past the perimeter of Hanoi, to a spot where the roads empty out and the smog
clears away. We retrieve our bikes from the equipment truck, hop on our pedals, and start the ride.
I'd confided in the guide my concerns about my fitness level, so after a mile or so Scott pedals up along-
side me to check in. “Feeling okay? Is it all coming back to you?” he asks.
“Like riding a bicycle,” I reply, with the flippant grin of a man who is due for a painful comeuppance.
The first ten miles leave me breathing hard, but mostly I'm just thrilled to be outside, working up a sweat.
We've done so much passive sitting on this trip, as trains and ships carted us across the earth, that it feels
ennobling to take the reins. After a quick break in the shade of some trees, we start the second ten-mile leg.
I'm getting severely winded, but—to my surprise—I'm still chugging along.
At the next checkpoint, where we stop for lunch, Scott informs us that this final, fifteen-mile stretch will
be entirely uphill. Rebecca judiciously decides to give up and ride in the support van. I (somewhat less
judiciously) choose to have a go at those hills.
I quickly, and miserably, realize that I must have been fueled by adrenaline for the first twenty miles. It's
worn off now. Less than halfway into the final leg, I'm soaked in sweat and panting, mouth agape. My heart
is thumping so fast that I can no longer distinguish individual beats. A heavenly white light is creeping in
at the edges of my vision.
The stronger cyclists have zoomed far ahead, out of sight, and I find myself struggling at the back of the
pack with the two retired ladies. Eventually the ladies run out of steam, dismount from their bikes, and wait
by the side of the road to flag down the equipment truck. It's getting dusky out now. The hills are growing
steeper. My quadriceps burn as though roasting over a six-burner gas range.
The truck eventually rumbles up behind me and flashes its headlights. This is an established signal,
which we'd discussed during the orientation. It means, roughly: “ You appear to be having a stroke, sir.
Please stop now. We fear for your life.”
I'm so grateful for the excuse to stop pedaling that I ignore the humiliation and chuck my bike in the
back of the truck. When we pull up to the hotel—a rustic, bare-bones lodge deep inside a jungle—we find
the faster riders lounging on the covered front porch, showered and changed, well into their second bottles
of beer.
The next couple of days go pretty much the same. I begin each morning vowing to keep pace with the
lead peloton. We cruise along at a reasonable speed for the first few minutes, and then the stronger cyc-
lists—meaning everyone but me, Rebecca, and the two older women—turn on the jets and leave the strag-
glers in their dust. Once I've lost sight of this group, I revise the day's goal downward. New goal: Do not
have a stroke.
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