Road to Mandalay

Mandalay mostly serves as a center for commercial trade with China. I passed through a few times during the past year but never felt any desire to stay long. Then a group I like proposed going up there this past weekend for a series of bicycle races. I agreed to go along but not to compete. I said I would cheer. To me this outing was about the people. The place struck me as hot and dusty, without much of the charm found in other parts of Myanmar.

After an early start by chartered bus, we arrived in Mandalay Friday evening with just enough time to change and head to a twisty course that had been set up on the edge of the city for an after-dark relay race. “John, you’ll never believe it but our team is short by one rider,” said a guy who has tried to convince me in the past that I’m a better mountain bike rider than I really am.

Such a rascal. I wasn’t falling for it. I said I didn’t bring any bike lights. I added that even if I had any I still wouldn’t be interested in speeding over a path full of potholes and low tree limbs. “Just humor me by taking a test circuit,” he said.

It took us about 25 minutes to try out the course. When we returned to the start line we were surrounded by that infectious energy that goes with such events. Music blared, announcements crackled, jokes made the rounds. I borrowed some bike lights.

Our five-person team didn’t win but we generated plenty of excitement as our impossibly fit anchor leg passed several other riders to make it close. The adrenalin kept me awake long past midnight. Gradually I drifted off, glad that I had joined but equally glad to be done for the weekend and mostly unscratched.

After not enough rest, the die-hards got up early Saturday for the road bike event: three laps, along major streets except for the detour up the city’s only hill, totaling about 30 miles. I remained sane, lingering over breakfast, checking the Internet to find out what else was happening in town that day.

I felt I had won the lottery when not only did I learn that the annual literary festival was happening, but that a main attraction would be an author who used to be a neighbor. Ros Russell and her family had an apartment downstairs in Bangkok before they were transferred to Yangon in the wake of Cyclone Nargis. They hosted my dad and me for dinner during our first-ever trip to Myanmar. During that meal Ros had described her secret life as a journalist in the then-censored country.

From the Mandalay breakfast table I wrote her a quick email. We met up before her talk, she singled me out in front of the crowd during her remarks, and I came away with two autographed copies of Burma’s Spring, which I highly recommend as an introduction to this colorful country.

Saturday evening, my road biking friends sounded jealous. “Not only was the heat brutal, and the hills killer, but a woman drafted behind me all the way and then passed me 20 meters before the finish,” said one, who I’m sure would admit to being a guy who prefers to be beaten by guys. He then suggested I would have a good chance of beating him in the next day’s individual mountain bike race, considering the difference in how we had spent our day.

Now that he mentioned it, I had been feeling lucky. Sunday morning I wasn’t committing to anything, but I did show up at the start line ready to ride. In the clear light of day, five laps of the same course we used for the night relay didn’t seem so very far. Somehow I found myself in the pack when the gun sounded. And somehow on the third lap I found myself passing yesterday’s road bikers. Even that gravelly dip and climb at around the halfway point stopped giving me trouble. As on Friday night, I came away with no medals, but a big grin. After all, this outing was about the people.

Now the challenge will be finding an excuse when the next weekend racing event comes around.