Restless Me - The Journal of World Travel

When I tired of the crowds in Siping, I rode off in the other direction, into Liaoning Province. I rambled along dirt paths through fields of corn stubble, on to their provincial towns where government buildings did not display Mao's red star, but instead featured three red circles arranged into the unmistakable silhouette of Mickey Mouse, or Mi Lao Shu as he's known across China.

I traveled far and wide on the endlessly expansive plane. With a horizon always in view, I understood the absurdity in bringing a mountain bike here. There was no mountain. No hill, tor or vale either.

Trees also seemed absent from most parts of China, but in Liaoning I found what appeared to be a eucalyptus forest growing in perfectly lined rows. I wheeled through the symmetrical woods, following an empty, freshly paved road (another rarity) for miles until it dead-ended at a large iron gate. A lone soldier watched me approach, his eyes widening, his hand reaching for his rifle. I turned around and didn't look back.

That evening, I got another visit from my Foreign Assistant. He warned me to stay away from secret military bases. I promised I would. He also reminded me to stay out of "closed areas." I agreed to that as well, but wasn't sure where they were. So I asked him would he mind if I took off a weekend for a ride to Inner Mongolia. In return, he asked me why I was so determined to make him lose his job.

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Spring apparently thawed the heart of the Dean of Discipline, and soon students found their way back to my apartment. Again we traveled in a brightly colored pack, but this time I wanted to show them the natural beauty of Liaoning. What I wanted to show off more was the stunts I could pull on its rutted paths. I raced up a dirt mound to jump a small ditch. It would have been a simple maneuver on a mountain bike.

My landing was clean, but then so was the resulting break in my fork. It split like a wishbone, sending me over the handlebars. Once my students recovered from the shock of witnessing their teacher fail a stunt not even the Shanghai Acrobatic Troupe would attempt, they all laughed, which was all I'd wanted in response anyway. And repairs set me back only a few yuan, less than two bucks.

When the time came for me to leave China, I sensed a change in Lester. He seemed sad, but more so, envious of my freedom to escape. There was nothing I could say about that, nothing I could do but leave him to care for my Flying Pigeon.

As for Betsy, my first mountain bike, she's still around. I occasionally ride her on paths that meander along the river, but at age fifteen, she's too wobbly to take on the rugged single-track trails that crisscross local ski slopes in the off-season. Suckered by a flashy new breed, I graduated to a full suspension mountain bike. It's a tough, sleek piece of work. Though it was made in China, its price tag put me in debt and its annual maintenance fees easily double the cost of my Flying Pigeon. What's worse is I don't ride it half as much.

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STEPHEN AUSHERMAN is the author of the award-winning novel, Typical Pigs, and a collection of travel essays, Restless Tribes. His next novel, Fountains of Youth, is slated for publication in June 2005. His website is www.restlesstribes.com.