Better Days are Comin’

In Lukang, I set my alarm for six-thirty. I didn’t need it. Jet lag kept me awake through the early morning. Jet lag is both a scourge, and the cost of admission.

The pillows. The duvet. So comforting, I wanted to stay in bed all day. I’m not one to lounge in the mornings, there’s a life to live. But what began as mild sinus congestion days before I left home is now having a go at my head. Riding along with me is a sore throat, cough, and a hoarse voice (thankfully, I don’t have to talk to many people).

When there’s 100+ kilometres of road between Lukang and Budai, my next stop, lazing around isn’t an option, so I dragged myself out of bed and stood in a hot shower, which too was comforting, but like so many things comfort is fleeting.

Soon after leaving my hotel, I stopped at a roadside fruit stand. Three bananas for less than a dollar seemed like a deal, but the yellow-hued apple that my eyes gravitated to, not so much. That one apple was almost three dollars.

I passed this small farm early on, when the day was still cute.

Long distance cycling is as much a game of the mind, as it is physical. Early on, I try not to focus on the total kilometres, and I reward myself with a break when I hit certain milestones. And on this day, I didn’t care that I ate that apple after only ten kilometres. And at twenty-five kilometres I had breakfast at 7-Eleven in Erlin.

Pressing on through the day, I spied some shade at a gas station, so I turned us across the road and spent a good long time sitting next to the washroom, which wherever I’ve been are always impeccably clean. Outside, was a large sink. I cupped some cool water in my hands and let it run down my face.

Breakfast at 7-Eleven, with Marcus resting outside

One of the service station workers came to me, looked at the bike, and said something in Mandarin. The only word I understood was Taipei. I don’t know if he was asking if I was coming from the capital or going there. I told him I was going to Budai. He looked surprised. When I left, another worker, this one a middle-aged woman, waved and smiled. I returned the gesture.

Through much of the day, I zigzagged along small farm roads. The beautiful and quiet (and shaded) forested paths I had been on the previous two days seemed a distant memory, as I rode in the open. I turned down a narrow road that was part pavement and part dirt. The front tire hit some uneven ground, partially deflated, and in a split second the bike fell over and so did I. My head met the ground; my helmet thankfully absorbed the impact.

I passed lots of small rice fields

I picked myself and Marcus up. And my phone, which had come off its handlebar holder. My bike computer was showing the crash detection alert on the screen. The last thing I wanted was my wife to receive a message that I’d been in an accident, so I pressed the I don’t need help button. But I did message my wife: Just fell off my bike. All good. Front tire is a little flat. No blood. Just dirty (which for me is almost as bad as blood)

Her first words were: Get out those wet wipes. Pump up that tire and pedal on.

Then, she asked how I fell.

I wanted to see if the tire would hold air, without the hassle of changing the tube, so I pumped it up and it seemed to stay inflated. With only scratches on my right arm and leg, I got back on the bike and followed Google Maps down the road that became more of an overgrown path, and it got sketchy real quick. Littered with broken glass, I had to walk the bike to navigate the minefield. And then the road ended (someone hasn’t told Google). I turned around and went back to the main road, the one I had come off before toppling. Ten minutes later the front tire was flat. I walked back to a small, wooden hut I just passed that had a picnic table under the shade of a large tree. It seemed like a small shop, and wanting a cold drink, I went up the stairs, where two women were shelling nuts in a bowl, as if they were in competition with one another. On the back wall was a cooler mostly filled with beer. I helped myself to a sports drink, gave them a couple of coins, and returned to my bike.

With a working tire, I continued slowly toward Budai. The temperature was over thirty degrees and the sun was scorching, robbing me of what little energy I had. I was tired. Exhausted. And as I pushed the pedals around, I asked myself why I signed up for this. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. It felt like the longest fifteen kilometres. But I drew strength from the lyrics of Dermot Kennedy, one of my favourite singer-songwriters: Better days are comin’. Better days are comin’ for you.