SAILING SEA OF CLOUDS ON TAIWAN’S
Taiwan is an island of contrasts. Set in the South China Sea, it is a place of teeming humanity – and famously fierce feral dogs with a fondness for cyclists. But it also contains remote mountains and lush forests. London-based Mark Kowalski thought it would be the perfect terrain in which to train for the 2023 Transcontinental Race – but wishes, maybe, he’d just been touring. This is his story of a ride in stunning landscapes punctuated by heavy traffic, invisible dogs, a dead rat or two and thick mountain fog…
THIS ADVENTURE started with a wedding invitation. Destination weddings provoke an “Oh Christ” response from me. But this wedding was in Taipei, the capital of Taiwan. And reading about the1, 000km bicycle route that circumnavigates the country, set my wheels in motion.
I could use the ride as a stern test for my upcoming Transcontinental Race (TCR) attempt – to see what kind of shape I was in, and gain experience in similar conditions to those I’d encounter on the TCR in July.
I posted on the Taiwanese Randonneurs’ Facebook group soliciting advice. I’d also come across the “Taiwan KOM Challenge”, considered one of the hardest road events in the world, and enthusiastically incorporated 2,600m of its climb up the Taroko Gorge. Local expat cycling legend Bryce Bénat responded and made further edits to my route, increasing the distance to 1,150km, and in doing so expanding the total climbing by about a third. Looking through Bryce's achievements on Strava, I felt an
immediate pang in my stomach that perhaps I was wading into trouble.
Despite a packed schedule, Bryce found the time to join me riding out of Taipei. A strong northerly was buffeting the coast, and I put all my trust in him as he routed us north along the Tamsui River, before turning south at the Port of Taipei. Less than 24 hours after landing, my new friend and I were off.
For TCR, I had set myself the lofty goal of cycling 350km a day for this c. 3,700km edition of the race. New challenges, new preparations, new motivations. For me, this keeps any boredom at bay, and keeps me exploring on my bike. I’ve never done an ultra race like the TCR before. My Taiwan ride would give me the opportunity to put this pace to the test. It would also expose me to mountain climbing, something I’d only ever done on my trans-Canada trip under touring conditions.
Bryce and I set sail down dark coastal roads with a tailwind which grew stronger as the night wore on, kicking up dust and bending the betel nut palm trees. It howled at us. We refuelled with onigiri rice triangles, tea eggs and pot noodles from the 24-hour 7-Elevens and Familymarts
which dot Taiwan. We flew past the Giant cycle factory in Taichung, but stopped at a roadside shrine for me to pay homage to the cycling gods. This was easily the fastest I’d ever cycled for so long.
Eventually we headed inland to tackle the first climb: 1,000m over 20km. As the dawn broke we found ourselves above the morning clouds, surrounded by sculpted tea fields. Then it was downhill on one of Bryce’s diversions which rewarded us with Taiping’s famous “36 bend” descent.
It was Monday morning and Bryce left me here at the 300km mark, 14 hours in –to catch the train back to Taichung to start his work day. He advised not to sleep until after crossing the southern point of Taiwan and getting to the east coast. With that goal in mind we separated and I was immediately baptised in Taiwan traffic, morning heat, and repeated climbs.
Without my pace-setting companion, I slowed down and couldn’t get my heart-rate up. I was stopping at every opportunity. Day two is always the worst on a long ride. The adrenalin is gone and the pains begin to form. If there’s a remedy for the day two blues, I have yet to find it.
As I neared the crossing point, and
exhausting my legs. Taroko awaited later that evening.
My diversion on to Highway 9 took me through a valley where the Eurasian and Philippine plates drift apart. Riding through fertile lands which produce Taiwan’s most prized crops, bought a huge bag of sliced pineapple from a roadside stall, squeezing it in my helmet under my aero bars, and jabbed away at it with a wooden spear. This is how the pros do it, I thought. ate too much and felt sick.
A shimmering mosaic of rice fields stretched out around me. Waterfalls bordered by hand-built stone-walls, cascaded down, streams fed by the mountain range to my left, and contained by the smaller coastal mountains to my right. I studied the farmers riding atop strange-looking machines that seemed to glide across drained paddies of mud, planting their cargo of seedlings in perfect rows off the back as they skimmed across. But these idyllic scenes were being witnessed from a highway a bit too heavy with afternoon traffic. Our mutual hustle was starting to wear on me. A thought
emerged. I was a touring cyclist. I still cherished the novelty of seeing local sights. My Taiwan cycling guru friend was an ultra-racer. He’d seen my Facebook post where I gushed about this TCR test ride, and in return he’d given me a TCR test route.
Here I was, caught in the middle of Taiwan at a crossroads. Do I want to tour, or do I want to race? In considering longdistance racing, and the idea of what Mike Hall, the TCR’s founder, was trying to create, I recalled his famous warning: “This is not a tour.” This is what I’d signed up for. As the night set in, the silhouette of mountains under starlight rose on my left. How quickly you forget the dangers when focusing on what lies ahead. At this moment a scrape of claws pierced the silence; something leapt out of the bushes. A brief stillness was followed by crazed snarls and fierce barking, I didn't have time to look at what had latched on to my back wheel. I pushed down on the pedals as hard as I could and cursed, but couldn’t shake it off. It snapped and growled at me. I unclipped my right shoe and lashed out with my foot, smashing my shin on my
with the night setting in, the excuses began: a cheap hostel with a ready bed, or some grass outside a fire station, the rabid dogs hidden from sight. I was warned by a firefighter that the crossing was a dangerous road, climbing up over a mountain pass with heavy traffic. At each junction I challenged myself to keep going. I felt good, I was not tired, and the traffic, after midnight, was quiet. Indeed the large numbers of overlanding trucks never appeared, nor did the dogs. After summiting the 500m pass, I was diverted on to a newly paved road for two-wheeled transit, and flew down to the east coast, where I found a shrine, hidden from the road in the port village of Dawu – an excellent spot to unroll my bivvy for a few hours.
Sleep one – 3.5 hours at 2am after 32 hours. 530km travelled. Elevation gain 4,600m.
I woke to a beautiful morning with the Pacific Ocean on my right and old commuter trains passing above me, in and out of mountain tunnels on my left. However, the forecast calm weather didn’t arrive. Instead it was headwinds, and I diverted inland to flatter roads to prevent
dropbar in the process. Heart racing, shin bleeding, the feral dog vanished.
Taroko Gorge is the largest marble canyon in the world. The climb starts at sea level, with the gorge rising hundreds of metres up around you, before the marble jaws spit you out on to forested cliffs. Then, in case you thought it was easy, the steepest gradients greet you at the summit.
All in, I would climb 3,000m over 77km to 2,600m above sea level. But I am from London and my hill training consists of the ramp leading out of my parking garage. I’d never experienced a consistent climb like this before, but it would be an excellent primer for TCR’s crossing of the Alps.
Before stopping to rest, I gave myself a head start and rode 15km up, passing through 12 of its 38 tunnels, and crossing the Marble Bridge of Motherly Devotion, whose stone lions never unlocked their gaze as my torch light wiggled past. At 450m above sea level I found an abandoned tourist lodge and bivvied down on its back porch.
Sleep two – five hours at 1am after 18 hours. 265km travelled. Elevation gain 1,900m.
In the morning, at 1,400m in elevation, I found a roadside rest station nestled between a sheer wall of landslide tunnels connected by invisible switchbacks under the forest canopy. A plain-clothed man welcomed me in broken English, helping me to order a heaping breakfast of egg-fried rice. He introduced himself as the Chief of Police at the Taroko police station, located at the summit, where I’d planned to stop for water (Taiwan police stations all have water facilities for cyclists).
Chief Andy Lu was eager to practise his English. We chatted for a while before he departed, him mentioning something about food and expecting me at his station around midday.
Fuelled up, I continued climbing. Occasional tourists snapping photos wore jackets in the spring sunshine. Shortly before the summit I stopped at a rest area for a break. Removing my shoes, I washed my socks and feet for the first time. There was a huge wooden barrel of cold water. I indulged and washed my face and torso using a small face cloth I had on
me. Something caught my eye at the bottom of the barrel – a big furry, very dead rat. Possibly two. I exited the bathroom, trying not to draw attention from the other tourists, and immediately began Googling the potential diseases.
Leptospirosis, I learned, could provoke fever, nausea, aching joints, red eyes, and/ or loss of appetite. Most of these had already contracted from cycling alone.
Chief Andy Lu was standing expectantly on the steps of the police station as I pulled up. He led me straight to the kitchen where one of his constables was putting the finishing touches to a table of food: various kinds of fried fish, vegetables, omelettes, chicken, pork, rice. What hospitality. Andy showed me the CCTV of the summit, where I’d eventually wave to him through the camera, disappearing into the final tunnel before my descent into the backcountry.
On the beginning of the descent I traced the contours of mountain side and ground up hidden ascents topping 600m through the remote agricultural centre of Lishan. But hopes of an untouched section of Taiwan, historically cut off and restricted by landslides, were foiled by the sheer
scale of clear-cutting having taken place to make room for agriculture. feared one persistent cyclone could wash it all away.
As I climbed the final peak in the fading light, gleeful for an incomprehensible 75km of straight descent, I looked up to see a treeline shrouded in ominous fog ahead. A valley bathed in gold disappeared behind me and I entered one of grey.
The fog was impenetrable as I flew down, grasping my brake levers – my lights having no effect. My fear was that I’d perhaps 20 minutes before the sun would disappear behind me, plunging me into total darkness. If I couldn’t find the other side of the fog, I would be forced to stop.
Animals screeched from mossy, leafless trees. Switchback after switchback. The road became soaking wet from heaps of punctured irrigation pipes, coiled around the road's crash barriers – barely visible under the haphazard workmanship. The scene was apocalyptic and ruinous. Where was I? What was this fog bank and where would it end? No cars, no life. I was alone. With moments to spare, some street lights emerged: the tiny mountain village of Datong. Taking a break at the
Familymart, I couldn’t stop shivering and donned all my clothing before heading back out to continue descending. The fog had dissipated, but there were no street lights – the roads were extremely quiet. A few tractor drivers remained, trying to eke out one last hour of productivity, their spotlights floating in the nothingness beside me – probably equally bemused at the firefly darting down the mountain. And gravity pulled me further down, and down, and down.
At Yilan, the clock struck midnight, and with 85km to go to Taipei I was back in summer gear climbing high above the coastal city and into the last mountain range separating me and my bed.
It started to pour and the sleeves of my Gore-Tex Shake Dry failed unexpectedly. For the first time my head began bobbing for sleep. There was nowhere to stop, so I started singing made-up songs and convinced myself that going faster was indeed safer. I arrived in Pinglin’s Old Street at 2am with not a soul in sight, and unrolled by sleeping mat under the overhang of the District’s Civil Office.
Sleep three – two hours at 2am after 20 hours. 240 km travelled. Elevation gain: 4,300m.
Rising early, I left Pinglin unnoticed, but not before a punishing climb out of town. In my head I sent a colourful thank you to Bryce for this last addition. Human-
Mark’s adventures
Arrivée featured the globe-trotting Mark Kowalski back in the summer of 2022 (Issue 156) when he toured Iceland. He must have a thing about big islands! Mark developed his passion for long-distance cycling when he undertook a coast-to-coast ride across his native Canada in 2017. Back home in London, he discovered Audax UK, and has been a member ever since. He posts videos of his many cycling adventures on instagram.com/ kowalifornication
sized Buddha statues lined Pingding Road, which peaked at 20 percent and forced me to walk for the first time. I was empty. The reward was a sweeping descent through lush green hillsides and quiet old streets, long forgotten under the towering bypasses of modernity.
As I re-entered Taipei, a few local riders getting in their morning ride passed me on their way out. Not wanting to compete with the busy morning traffic, diverted to take in the Keelung River’s vast cycle highway and see the capital for the first time. I took my time, at a relaxed pace, before arriving back at my hostel and collapsing under the shower head.
Total distance: 1,098km. Total elevation: 12,136m. Total time: 87 hours.
Total sleep: 11 hours.
It was a rare opportunity to visit Taiwan, and experience Asia by bike for the first time. But my decision to race rather than tour was bittersweet. The trip provided me with great insights for TCR, but I did miss the touring experience.
The few interactions I’d had with civilians highlighted a deep kindness despite language barriers. A country covered two-thirds in mountains, famous for its cloud seas and glass descents, deserved more time. hope I may one day get another opportunity to visit. And I would not hesitate for a moment if Bryce offered to plan the route.
