The time had finally arrived to face the one aspect of logistics we had been nervous about for months: getting our bikes on the train to Lhasa. Despite our best efforts to research the situation ahead of time, which included scouting out the train station and causing major confusion because we did not yet have our permits in hand, we still did not feel confident as we rolled up to the station on the afternoon of our departure. We wheeled them through security without meeting resistance and promptly spotted a bad-ass solo Chinese cyclist on her way to Lhasa as well. She insisted that the best strategy was to board the train at the last minute so as not to get crushed in the rush of people. This seemed to work well for her since she simply curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor next to her bike at the end of a car. While we were relieved to at least get everything on the train before it departed, we had to put our bikes in one car, some of our luggage in another, and sit with the leftover pieces wedged around us in the very communal seating area. We were too cheap to book the pricey "soft sleepers," or even the "hard sleepers" for that matter.

As soon as we were settled in our tiny non-reclining seats facing three Chinese in the row across from us, the reality of the next 24 hours set in. While sleep was essentially out of the question, the experience did end up being masochistically enjoyable. Besides some incredible scenery of the Tibetan Plateau, especially as we were crossing the high passes in the early morning light, we particularly enjoyed the camaraderie that developed in our little seating unit. Everyone shared food, dried yak meat, citrus fruits, and we even got a lesson on the quintessential Chinese time-passing snack of cracking sunflower seeds with our front teeth as the shells piled up on the little tray table between us. We made small talk with the couple across from us. The woman serves in the police force and is not allowed to travel internationally because of it. Her husband was surprised to hear that, as foreigners, we are not allowed to travel in the Tibet "Autonomous" Region (the official misnomer for what is commonly called Tibet) without special permits, a predetermined itinerary, and a guide. Then he surprisingly emphasized, especially given his wife's profession, "I hate the government!" In contrast to us, they were headed to the TAR like so many other Chinese without an itinerary, free to do as they please.

Since the completion of the high-speed rail line to Lhasa in 2006, Tibet has become a trendy national vacation destination for middle and upper class Han. The situation is comparable to Americans traveling to Hawaii for the beautiful scenery and exposure to an exotic culture, one where the cultural fabric is certainly faded and tattered but not totally torn apart from being forcibly brought under the rule of a superpower. Likewise, it seems the vast majority of Chinese tourists arrive to Tibet with about the same level of awareness of historical context and concern as vacationing Americans have for the perspective of native Hawaiians, which is to say: not much. Tragically, the Chinese stranglehold on Tibet gives it about the same odds as Hawaii has in obtaining native sovereignty. This reality is not lost on His Holiness the Dalai Lama. He has, in fact, advocated for a Buddhist-inspired "middle path" solution since 1989, whereby Tibet would accept certain aspects of governance from China such as foreign and military affairs in exchange for autonomy in matters of spirituality, education, and the environment. Chinese politicians simply denounce his plan of compromise as an example of perpetuating "splittism," defined as pursuance of factional interests in opposition to official Communist Party policy.

The train itself attracts travelers who wish to experience a ride on the highest rail line in the world. Eighty six percent of the line is above 4,000 meters (13,000 feet) and if that is not impressive enough, it also crosses a 5,000-meter (16,400-foot) pass. Supplemental oxygen is piped in to each rail car to ease the risk of altitude sickness. The train is lauded as an engineering marvel, requiring great ingenuity to successfully cross huge stretches of permafrost that make of half of the route. Frequent cooling pipes driven deep into the ground alongside the track stick out like tall fence posts minus a fence between them, effectively keeping the permafrost frozen year round. According to Lonely Planet, this achievement came at the absurd cost of $4.1 billion dollars, which is a greater sum than China has spent on hospitals and schools in Tibet over the last fifty years!

Then why was it so important to force a high-tech train across the inhospitable Tibetan plateau? As always, it is about politics. In an intriguing book we read called China's Great Train: Beijing's Drive West and the Campaign to Remake Tibet, the point was driven home that in addition to allowing increased military presence near the disputed borders with India, a rail line inextricably links Lhasa to Beijing. The train encourages not just Chinese tourists, but the settlement of Chinese in Tibet, especially when coupled with favorable tax breaks and salary incentives for them. The officials claim that this facilitates necessary economic development of the region, but the result is a Chinafied Tibet were the wealth largely recirculates within the Chinese community and Tibetans are intentionally excluded from opportunities.

So then why were we supporting this phenomenon by arriving on the train? We might have ridden our bikes to Lhasa, but of course, that's not allowed...unless you are Chinese. Even if non-Chinese tourists have to arrive by train or plane (or risk the consequences of sneaking in overland), His Holiness the Dalai Lama encourages foreigners to travel to the region as a means of building awareness and inspiring action. In the preface of the latest Lonely Planet Tibet guidebook, he writes, "At a time when many people are not clear about what is actually  happening in Tibet, I am very keen to encourage whoever has the interest to go there and see for themselves. Their presence will not only instill a sense of reassurance in the Tibetan people, but will also exercise a restraining influence on the Chinese authorities. What's more,  I am confident that once they return home they will be able to report openly on what they have seen and heard...[As] more people visit Tibet, the numbers of those who support the justice of a peaceful solution will grow." With the blessing of the Dalai Lama, we felt that our presence in Tibet was justified, despite arriving on the controversial train.

At each stop approaching Lhasa, the ratio of tourists to real live Tibetans began to balance out and the train got even more "cozy." A Tibetan man took an interest in our binoculars and offered to buy them. Although we declined his proposal, our banter managed to attract the attention of half the rail car who surrounded us as we then progressed to comparing IPhones (his was newer), sharing photos, and practicing some Tibetan pronunciation. Meanwhile, he completely ignored his poor wife as a very drunk Tibetan man passed out on her! Once Matt and a few others dragged him back over to his own space, we were offered some treats she had made, clumpy noodles added to yogurt that were quite tasty, and multiple rounds of dried yak cheese, which was about like chewing on a fossilized dirty sock.

As the train pulled into the Lhasa station, we said goodbye to our travel companions, all of us going our separate ways. The Tibetan couple was coming to the big city to sell yarchagumba, nicknamed Himalayan Viagra, a bizarre organism coveted for its aphrodisiac properties as well as its ability to cure ailments ranging from asthma to hepatitis to hair loss. Although I could never afford to test its efficacy myself, since it fetches around $10,000 per pound, I have developed a slight fascination with it. A brief summary to pique your curiosity as well: The ghost moth larvae burrows into moist soil at high altitudes where a specific fungus (Cordyceps sinensis) infects it and essentially mummified it. The fungus then pushes a single grass-like blade to the surface where a hard-searching soul spies it and feels the exhilaration of striking gold.

Although we did not know it at the time, sadly our conversations with the outgoing Tibetan couple on the train would be our most in-depth and genuine interaction with people of a traditional lifestyle on the entire trip. The Chinese couple kindly helped us unload our panniers and bicycles in a rush to get off the train, then we followed our bad-ass solo cyclist mentor to pay a fee of approximately 25 dollars imposed at the last minute for excess baggage. Apparently, we three were simply unlucky with our timing. Usually the charge is not enforced by train staff, but a supervisor spied our wheels and decided to assert his authority. A fitting welcome to Tibet in keeping with the theme of obsessive control!

Leaving Xian, we were faced with a route dilemma. We could tackle some major elevation on a longer--but likely more scenic--route, stopping over in a few places nicely described in our guidebook. Or we could take the direct route with exactly zero Lonely Planet-approved points of interest, knowing by now that an easier elevation profile equates with more truck traffic. Given that we were operating under deadline to catch our train to Lhasa from Xining, we feared the scenic route would be too rushed to enjoy it, or if we fell behind schedule we would simply be too stressed. So we decided to bust a move directly to Xining, as quickly as our bicycles could carry us.

What's that saying about the best laid plans…? 

On the outskirts of Xian, a friendly bicycle commuter decided to adopt us while on his ride home in a neighboring city. Right away, he invited us to lunch, which we gratefully accepted. He rode while typing in translations on his phone with both hands, not even glancing up at the road. Meanwhile, Matt and I were swerving around potholes and braking for the chaos cropping up around us. Somehow he just gracefully glided through it all at his very leisurely pace. We followed him for what seemed like hours, wondering if lunch was actually going to happen. But after a tour of the attractions in his hometown, including a lake, temple, and rebuilt bell tower, he led us in to a covered market, a real locals' place, and ordered us huge bowls of delicous spicy noodles. We don't normally eat so much while riding, so after we said our goodbyes, we pedaled away even more slowly than when we were pacing with our spontaneous friend.

As if that wasn't enough, then the brazen connecting Matt's front rack to his fork broke off without warning. We figured it would be an easy fix with countless truck repair shops on the edge of every town we passed through. We would just wait until we saw sparks flying as we passed by one, then point to the machine and Matt's bike to get it welded back on. Of course, we were used to seeing welding in action on every day except the one time we needed it. So we approached a shop and began the pantomiming routine. As tends to happen, a crowd gathered and two younger guys translated for us. The mechanic said no, so we kept going. About a mile down the road, the guys who translated tracked us down and told us that the shop actually did have a welder, so we turned around. When we got back to the shop, they then said, "Sorry, actually it is broken." Before we started riding the same mile-long stretch for a third time, Matt had the genius idea of having them write a note in Chinese explaining what we needed. We handed to the next shop we saw and it worked brilliantly. The piece was back on in a matter of minutes. The mechanic insisted on also putting the front rack back on himself, even though Matt was gesturing to let him do it. Not a big deal, except…

While he was tightening one of the screws, it snapped off inside the fork! This began a several hour saga of a rotating team of mechanics trying to drill out the screw after we rejected their idea of welding an improvised rack connector onto his bike. They broke two drill bits in the process, but persisted until they drilled through the original hole and continued on, accidentally or intentionally (we're not sure!), to create a new hole on the other side of the fork! This was perplexing, but our nervousness subsided once they rustled up a bolt big enough to go all the way through the fork and the rack appeared to be secure once again. I think the original mechanic was more relieved than we were and refused any payment for the whole ordeal. We rustled through our bags for something to give them, but could only come up with random things like an open pack of cookies and such. Sadly, the perfect solution did not occur to us until we were many miles gone: buying a case of beer at the convenience store and sitting down for a happy hour with them! Perhaps that was for the best though, since we were riding long after dark to make up for all the ground we didn't cover during the day.

The next challenge we faced was four days of rain for at least part of each day. This actually had the opposite effect of slowing us down. Being less inclined to stop for photos or food, we just rode and rode to keep warm, hovering around 70 miles on most days. However, our bodies and our bikes reached new levels of dirtiness. The dusty coating of road grime we had become so accustomed to was now dark-grey splatter paint on everything despite our fenders' best efforts. If a hotel actually let us in the door, it was quite a process of wiping down eight bags and two bikes and heading directly into the shower so that we did not wreck the room. Our bikes seemed to be protesting their abuse as they developed a strange grinding feeling vibrating up the pedals. After checking the drive chain multiple times and seeing nothing unusual, we became convinced that the gunk had somehow gotten in to the crank sets. At the first break in the rain, we asked an employee of a Giant bike shop to clean them out. He set up his bike stand and spread his tools out all over the sidewalk in front of his shop, so we also got to entertain a crowd of random people with nothing better to do than watch our bikes get taken apart. He also did some other basic work, like lubing the chains, as well as a practice we had not seen before of filing the teeth of the cassettes. That made us a little nervous, but he seemed to know what he was doing. In the end, our bikes felt great again...right up until the next rainstorm when the same weird grinding feeling returned. This time we just ignored it, and when the roads dried the sensation disappeared. We don't totally get it, except that rain on Chinese roads makes for cranky bicycles.

When we woke up to the fifth day of rain in a row, we conceded to the demands of our bicycles and declared it a rest day. Even then, as we were drifting off to sleep, a loud hissing noise suddenly emanated from the corner of the room where the bicycles were propped up. My bicycle had blown a flat without even being ridden!

In Langzhou, our least favorite city in China thus far, we had one last epic time-suck before reaching Xining. We rode circles in the city looking for an affordable hotel that also accepts foreigners. I found it savagely ironic that hotels with English names and signs that said "Welcome" would deny us. To be fair, local governments require hotels to be registered for accepting foreigners in these western provinces, but still, don't waste our time by advertising in English then! Despite arriving before dark, we finally checked in after 10pm to a 7 Days Inn for twice the cost of what we usually pay. 

The next morning, rainy no doubt, we were delayed on our way out of town by something we had been hoping for since we left Beijing: we crossed paths with our first foreign cycle-tourers! They were three guys from Germany, of course, supporting my conviction that 80% of the world's cycle tourers are German. While they were happy to chat with us, they didn't quite share our level of enthusiasm since they had met many cyclists en route from Europe through "the Stans" and into far Western China. I suppose own our personal experience explains why it is not so popular to cycle China from east to west...oh well, we survived!

As it turns out, we arrived in Xining with ample days to spare. Settling in to a room at the chill Lete Youth Hostel for a week was both relaxing and productive, as we actually had time and energy to write blogs, edit photos, and other projects that long days in the saddle don't easily allow for. Almost every day, a new European cycle tourer arrived at the hostel (but strangely no Germans...) and we enjoyed hearing the stories of people who we can truly relate to. We cooked most of our meals on our camp stove out on a terrace in order to use up fuel we couldn't take on the train to Tibet. Sadly, we failed at camping on the sly since launching this cycle tour and our punishment was hauling pasta, tomato sauce, oatmeal, sugar, and dried fruit over 1500 miles before consuming it. When we got too restless in the hostel, we ventured out to a few cultural sites around the city. In the Qinghai Tibetan Cultural Museum, we perused quality exhibits about traditional medicine, artisanal woodwork, metalwork, calligraphy, and regional dress, only occasionally cringing at verbiage about the "liberation" of Tibet. The real draw of the museum is an astounding thangka scroll that is 2027 feet long, a collaboration of over 400 artisans chronicling Tibetan history, culture, and perspective in an extremely detailed painting with elaborate fabric designs sewn to the edges above and below. Photos were not allowed, but I snuck one anyway since words cannot accurately describe the large room where the scroll repeatedly curves back on itself, allowing for the entire masterpiece to be viewed, although it would require multiple visits to fully appreciate its intricacy. 

We've developed quite a fondness for the Chinese Muslim cuisine since first sampling it in Xian, so we frequented many spots for grilled spiced bread and lamb noodles in this one-third Muslim city. However, on the last night we branched out and went to a Tibetan restaurant called Black Tent. We happened to walk in on their opening night after being closed during a change of ownership and upgrade to the decor. The young friendly new owner, Tenzin, explained that as his first customers, we would join him and his friends for dinner free of charge. He chatted with us while the chef put the finishing touches on the generous feast, then we sat down to our first yak meat momos (dumplings), rich mutton soup, lovely vegetable dishes, and a delicious dessert of fresh fruit covered in yak milk yogurt. We also got to try Tibetan barley wine, much different than the barley wines at craft breweries back home, but still quite enjoyable. The evening was a totally unexpected and generous treat from a sincere host. It was one of those moments that reminds us of why we travel.

Despite a successful week of "catching up" in Xining, the more scenic route we didn't take still nags at me. Was taking the straight shot a mistake? Considering that it rained more days than it didn't during our extra time in Xining, perhaps it was meant to be.

I was told that Chinese believe that watermelon has a cooling effect on the body, and thus they eat a lot of it in the hot summer months. On our first food shopping excursion while settling in to our temporary apartment in Beijing, we picked one out for other reasons, namely that it was familiar and a “safe” choice with its thick rind protecting the good stuff from contaminating germs. I chopped it up into rough chunks, divided it between two gallon Ziplocs, and put it in the mini-fridge. Now we’re inclined to concur with the Chinese belief since that cold watermelon became the most satisfying treat immediately upon returning “home” from sweaty all-day bicycle-based adventures around the mega-city.

For folks who travel by their own pedal-power, we spend a surprising amount of time at gas stations. Upon pulling in to a relatively isolated one to scout the bottled water situation, an extremely energetic attendant started jabbering away at us while gesticulating wildly. Repeating over and over in Mandarin, “I don't understand. I don’t speak Chinese," only elevated his antics. We couldn’t deal with it and almost rode away, but then he disappeared. Stupidly thinking we had been left in peace, we started munching on some snacks, only to have him return with a watermelon in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. He insisted we come inside, where he hacked the melon in to slices on a flimsy and grease-smeared white plastic table. Another attendant, also in a royal blue jumpsuit, slept across three chairs. We were forced to sit in the two remaining, and dribbled juice all over the place as we ate slice after slice while Mr. Hyper suddenly became quiet watching sensationalist CCTV news, but not for long. As soon as Matt paused his watermelon consumption, he was invited to a table tennis match with our new friend. Yes, there was table tennis set up in the main indoor space of the gas station. Through it all, the dozing attendant did not rustle, not even when a ping pong ball hit him in the rump. Matt held his own for a good twenty minutes, then finally a lone customer pulled in for some gas, thus giving us a natural break to say our thank yous and goodbyes and pedal on. We took this as a lesson that sometimes the most annoying people are actually the most well-intentioned.

In Datong, when we met up with our host from Warm Showers, the first thing Hong did upon entering his bicycle shop/guest quarters was halve a watermelon. We learned a very effective slurping strategy by his example, a brilliant way to avoid the messy juice dribble. We ate a few slices but soon left for lunch, the rest remaining on the coffeetable. Over the course of the next two days the watermelon sat there in its original spot. At first I intended to eat more, but our guests kept us so well fed that it would have been impossible to fit even another juicy bite in my stomach. The poor rejected watermelon began to wilt, while cigarette butts encroached on its space, and I imagine the outer layer likely took on a distinct smokey flavor from Hong and his friends. As we were leaving, Hong finally dumped the sad red fruit in the wastebin, almost like a grsture representing the finality of our departure.

Not long after, on a hot sunny morning, we passed by a collection of roadside vendors offering only their local watermelon. We contemplated buying one, but decided the extra weight would not be desireable for the big elevation gain we were about to tackle. Cresting the pass after a 2000+ foot climb, we were greeted by a group of traveling companions who had passed us in a small truck on the way up. They had waited at the summit vista point to snag a photo with the hyperventilating foreigners on the bulky bikes. While still catching our breath, we posed with every possible combination of people in the group for a photo shoot. They were giddy as they piled into their little truck and continued down the other side. About an hour later, at the bottom of the big hill we had just descended, a truck pulled up alongside us. I glanced over and was startled to see a woman thrusting a watermelon at me with outstretched arms. It took me a second to realize it was the same group from the photo session at the pass. Then they dropped back to be parallel Matt as though they expected him to grab the watermelon and tuck it under his arm while riding on the narrow shoulder. We slowed to a stop and they did too, despite a few semi-trucks trying to honk them off the road. I looked back just in time to see the watermelon handoff to Matt. We yelled “xiexie” (thank you), but they were gone before we could even wave goodbye. We just stood there for a moment, Matt awkwardly holding a watermelon, slightly dazed from the unexpected turn of events. So he strapped the hefty little guy to his front bicycle rack and we pedaled on.

We didn't even end up eating the melon that day, so quite ironically, Matt lugged it up to the top of our next hilly pass, the exact scenario that prevented us from buying a watermelon the day before. However, it was totally worth it (especially for me)! We found a shady and breezy tunnel leading to a traditional community tucked away from the highway and devoured the whole thing. Even though it was warm near the rind from baking in the sun all day, the core was cool. It was, no question, the best watermelon we had ever eaten!

While the watermelon was our first unexpected gift of fruit along the roadside, it was not our last. When Matt returned a wave and smile to two women passing him on a motorscooter, they later snuck up behind him while we were stopped and dangled a bunch of grapes in his face while giggling uncontrollably. Flirting? Maybe, but the deliciousness of the grapes made up for it. Less flirtatiously, two men also on a motorscooter flagged him down to give him a handful of dates a few days later. We didn't even need to be on our bikes. Shortly after checking in to a hotel, the receptionist knocked on our door with a spontaneous apple delivery.

An understandable correlation that we experienced was that the less significant the road, the more random people would be super interested in us and would feel the need to take 100 photos of us with them. We started strategizing our breaks to be in places where no one was around just to be efficient with our time, but even then people would pull over just to check us out. We joked that there must be a social media contest awarding great prizes to people who post a picture with us to their QQ account. After a run-in with a particularly persistent gang of young men, we were nearly convinced that our fantasy was for real.

The whole thing began when they sidled up next to us on their mopeds, too close for comfort, trying to take pictures in their phones while in motion. When that didn't work so well, they commanded us to stop. Given that we were working hard up a long incline, we didn't want to lose our momentum, as it is never fun to start once stopped on a hill, especially all loaded up. They didn't have the patience to wait until we got to the top, getting bossier with their insistence that we stop for their photo. So we leveled our briefly without stopping and started downhill. Now desperate, they boxed me in on all sides and the guy in front of me slammed on his brakes. A bike with cantilever brakes transporting 250ish pounds (bike+gear+body weight) downhill cannot stop as fast a little scooter with some scrawny boys. Seeing that I was about to crash in to them, they accelerated just in time. My stubbornness with this annoying game instantly transformed into blood-boiling anger. They were not going to stop until someone got hurt, and that someone was most likely going to be me. And even then, they would still want a picture! I pulled to the side of the road and stopped, screaming every combination of profanities that came into my mind while they kept a safe distance. Once I got that out of my system and calmed down a bit, they approached, quite unfazed, and started snapping away as I faked a half smile. And then they were gone. Now we had to face a collection of cars that had pulled over in the meanwhile. I was still feeling a bit surly during the next round of photos, but a girl with a sweet, shy smile promptly produced two pears for us after she got hers. A wave of guilt swept over me for not being very friendly to her. I chased after her, reaching her just before she got into a basic grey van, and asked for her photo. While I was on this emotional rollercoaster, Matt had the presence of mind to capture most of the absurdity on GoPro. Reviewing the footage after the fact, we saw that the girl in the van had actually pulled over, pears in hand, several times before we actually stopped for the aggressive boys. We were so focused on them that we had failed to notice her persistence of a different kind, that of generosity.

Since the hot days of summer have come to an end, and we have begun to ascend the Tibetan Plateau, I doubt there are many more fruity incidents in store for us. But one thing is for sure, the stories we now have are definitely worth their weight in watermelon.