Most
sane people don't deliberately insert a two-week break in their
marathon training programs; certainly not without expecting some
tears come race day. But if this hiatus comes early enough in the
plan perhaps it is not the end of the world - especially if it takes
you to the ends of your world.
I
needed to be in Beijing for a couple of weeks over July and August to
supervise an animated co-production with a partner university. Our generous hosts ensured we were ushered around to some
classic city sites and our small crew of student interns had the times of our lives. But
Beijing's notorious smog meant that my running gear remained stowed
for the most part, the Air Quality Index seemingly always hovering
between 180-300. Besides a brief blue-sky window of opportunity one
day when I snuck in a few short kilometers around the campus, the sum
total of my workouts was confined to elbowing aside elders gumming up
the stairs to the emperors' Summer Palace, pedaling around Kunming
Lake aboard a paddle-boat that felt tethered to the dock, and
wandering the endless hallways in the capital city's warren of subway
lines.
Beijing - time to lay low |
Meanwhile, back at the ranch in lucky old Canada... |
I
was, in the words of a desperate billiards player, due for a run (pun
not intended, but apt).
As if someone heard me, the following day we were shuttled 120 kms NE of Beijing to Gubei –
a picturesque town that developers term 'The Water City' but
displaced residents know better as 'The Site Where Graft and Secret Consortiums Uprooted Our Families.' This is a gateway to Simatai, one of
the more rugged segments of China's Great Wall. We arrived at the
outskirts of the village mid-morning expecting the usual throngs of
tourists and instead found ourselves in a ghost town; a beautiful,
newly-built replica of Ming dynasty architecture that was
largely uninhabited. Store fronts were still being cleared of
building debris, wire pigtails sprouted from the walls of
freshly-hewn stone. Vines obediently wound their way up to the first
of many looms waiting to train their paths, while everywhere signs
were still being screwed onto posts. Our accidental timing put us in
a trough ahead of the waves of humanity that soon would crest this
village's meandering walkways. For now, though, we had this
amazing, silent space all to ourselves.
Always
in the distance, through the day's hot haze, we could see the Great
Wall's iconic watchtowers taking form as we walked closer. The ragged
path they traced along the ridge top seemed to get steeper and more
unlikely by the minute. One could not help but think, How? Even more
to the point: Why?! In deference to those in our party who
were disinclined to inclines, we took the cable car that rose halfway
up the massive ridge to the north. Once there, an empty trail snaked
its way up to the eighth of a dozen or so watchtowers. As a group we
weren't fast, but I mentally checked off hill work on my list of
overdue workouts.
The
wall itself was, of course, amazing – something everyone should
experience if they ever get the chance. This region's vistas, clouded
by Beijing's residual smog, were layered with rugged edges like
dragon's teeth. The wall's undulations made California's Marin County
fire roads look like a kiddie ride; were I part of a Mongolian horde
looking up at these sheer man-made cliffs, I would definitely throw in the towel
and head back for a home-cooked meal.
Pillage
and plunder was the last thing on my mind as I doffed my hiking
clothes (run shorts underneath!) and with a quick salute to my
students I launched myself eastward, rising further still into the
hazy sky. As soon as I passed through the first watchtower I was
suddenly, absolutely alone, not a soul in sight anywhere... so of
course I kept running! The centuries-old cobbles kept my attention
for the most part, but as I slowed on some of the steeper sections
(onto all fours on one set of stairs) I could look out at the vistas
and marvel at their natural beauty and at the sheer audacity behind
this ribbon of rocks and bricks I was using.
Here
I was stretching my legs on one of the most stunning. iconic pathways
the world has ever known, and for this brief time I had it all to
myself. Or so I thought.
Just as I came to the 12th watchtower, I saw that the far doorway was barricaded, signs up warning of dangers ahead. I had reached the end of the line, beyond which the famous Heavenly Ladder, Sky Bridge, and Fairy Tower snaked their way precipitously higher.
Just as I came to the 12th watchtower, I saw that the far doorway was barricaded, signs up warning of dangers ahead. I had reached the end of the line, beyond which the famous Heavenly Ladder, Sky Bridge, and Fairy Tower snaked their way precipitously higher.
Hikers more intrepid than me have perished beyond here, so the gummint said No more! |
Just as I reached the barricade,
thinking I would rest a minute in my solitude, taking in this
profound communion between nature and human history, a man's voice
not more than a metre behind me called for me to stop. I wheeled
around, my spiritual reverie shattered, and saw a soldier squatting
behind an archway. He apparently was stationed here to prevent people like me from going further - if we had plans to do so. Which I didn't.
Judging by both of our reactions, neither expected the other – him because I ran up, on silent shoes, likely not panting quite as much as some of the tourists he so rarely sees, and me because, well, I thought I was having a Private Bloody Moment To Myself. Skipping anything intelligent, I blurted out in my finest King's English, Oh... hi!, turned on my heels, and headed back to the rest of the world. On the plus side, I see it as good that I surprised him – he had no chance to pick up the Kalashnikov that apparently more than one trekker has seen soldiers brandishing at this lofty cul de sac. That would be something: Sorry sir, I am obliged to shoot you if you insist on going further. We do not want you to risk hurting yourself.
Judging by both of our reactions, neither expected the other – him because I ran up, on silent shoes, likely not panting quite as much as some of the tourists he so rarely sees, and me because, well, I thought I was having a Private Bloody Moment To Myself. Skipping anything intelligent, I blurted out in my finest King's English, Oh... hi!, turned on my heels, and headed back to the rest of the world. On the plus side, I see it as good that I surprised him – he had no chance to pick up the Kalashnikov that apparently more than one trekker has seen soldiers brandishing at this lofty cul de sac. That would be something: Sorry sir, I am obliged to shoot you if you insist on going further. We do not want you to risk hurting yourself.