Off Road and Off Track

When we reached Daegu, about 200 kilometers from our departure in Busan, our route took a turn.  The bike path had carried us along the river reliably to this point (except for the mountains), but now we had to find another path; the Nakdonggang wound another 200 kilometers north to Andong dam.  Fortunately, the city of Daegu is well-suited for biking as well, provided of course you don't need to actually go anywhere in the city itself: the river that forms its border on three sides has a very familiar-looking bike path running along familiar-looking tennis courts and abandoned public toilets.  We took a well-deserved break in Daegu for a day, then hit the road again, having to backtrack a few kilometers just to get to the bike path.

Not to get off on too much of a tangent, but such is really the problem with bike paths.  Sure, not having to compete with cars is pretty pimpin', but the fact of the matter is that a bike path can take you to a very limited set of destinations (Point A, Point B, or riding around in circles (not recommended)).  For we who are trying to make actual distance across a country, this means we often have the choice of going wildly out of our way to get on a dedicated bike path or taking a more direct route that could be unsafe for cyclists.  As a touring cyclist, it's pretty maddening that the people who plan these bike paths don't seem to understand that anyone will use their roads for actual transportation rather than weekend recreation.  Hence the Four Major Rivers Project's tendency to have 50 kilometers of beautiful, well-maintained bike path bordered by 30 kilometers of nigh-impassable mountains and forest.  "Surely," these architects declare, their feet up on mahogany tables, "anyone who wants to ride our bike path can ride the good parts, then when they're finished, they can turn around and ride back to their car, which they'll use to actually get around."  Bastards.

Anyway, we skirted Daegu, spending six hours or so dodging lycra-clad racing cyclists and ajimas in visors, masks, and arm covers shuffling down the road.  The old ladies in East Asia sure are careful not to get a single second of sun while they're outside.

By sunset, we were, as usual, not where we expected we would be.  The path stretched for miles in either direction, propped up on a steep green hill with no shoulder on either side.  Below us, along the river, there was a broad, dusty flood plain spotted with ancient, ruined concrete and determined verdant shoots.  Our visibility would be high for this, our last night camping on this adventure, but there seemed to be little alternative, as another city (and thus, even less cover) seemed to be ahead of us.  We decided to take our chances at being spotted from the bike path, banking yet again on the sympathy or apathy of our fellow cyclists.  Laboriously, we rolled our bikes down the hill, crushing meter-high yellow flowers and collecting spiderwebs on our panniers, then sat to drink the beers we'd saved from the last convenience store.

As we waited for the sun to finish coming down, a soft whirring noise in the distance grew louder.  We spotted a colorful shape in the distance, and it headed towards us at a pace almost as lazy as our own.  Eventually we figured out what we were looking at: a man suspended from a parachute with an enormous fan strapped to his back.  I mean, obviously, right?  Man, I dunno how we didn't guess that immediately.  Duh.

The man passed over our heads, then circled around and passed again, waving to us and smiling the smile of a man who's realizing his childhood fantasy (indeed, every boy's childhood fantasy).  We waved back, happy for the man's gleeful greeting, though a bit dismayed that bike touring was clearly not the best way to travel anymore.