Race Media

Asia Miles Action Asia Challenge, Lantau Island, Hong Kong

December 11, 2005 - By Doug Woodring

We were told that the race had to start early because the World Trade Organization (“WTO”) show was coming to town, though none of us was sure how a few hundred mountain-biking, river-scrambling, kayak-tipping enthusiasts would compete with the well organized methods of those farmers to the north who were giving the press what looked like a Viagra-induced surge of anticipation.  The police, we were told, had other things to look out for rather than keeping the roads closed for 15 minutes while the adventurers did their stuff. 

6:30am prompt was the word.  We were to run like wildfire out of the gates, in the dark, possibly by pre-WTO onlookers, to grab the bikes and head for the hills.  4:00am wake up call on a Sunday to be ready for hours of hills, rocks, energy bars and soreness.  Who does this?  Certainly not the majority of the inhabitants of Asia’s World City – many in fact, were just heading to bed.  Those who were up to race, however, made up a growing crew of adventure racing enthusiasts who thrive on everything that city dwellers think have already become extinct in the name of modernity.

People scrambled for helmets, water, gloves, and harnesses, wondering where the starting line was and how to get their bikes there.  Then the voice came, squawking like a morning goose, but he got the point across – this was now going to be a “bike start,” not a running start.  320 bikes and their over-eager fidgeting riders were meant to fit through a gap in the starting gates a mere 8m wide.  Like a horizontal hourglass with fire ants waiting to get to the other mound of sand.  Bang!  The panic began, yellow vests flying, but not flapping, because they were fit so snug and tight over our life vests that even Santa would have looked like a yoga instructor next to all of us starting the race.  Why life vests?

For 4km we sprinted along the access road along the far end of the airport tarmac, past incubating 747s in the morning mist, like piglets being chased by that morning goose.  Before hitting the runway proper, people were seen jumping off the bikes as if to hit a river of hot lava.  Inner tubes were scattered about, with helmeted adrenalators grabbing them in fear, heading for the sea.  The reason for the life vests suddenly became apparent.  Get those bikes to the other side of the causeway, 200m away, without sinking them, or yourself.  If the rocks weren’t slippery, they were barnacled, so a quick slide also meant some sliced skin.  No matter, get those bikes across, amidst the pointless kicking, splashing and reckless bobbing that somehow propelled racers, with their bikes atop an old floating tire, to the far-off barnacle ridden coastline.

Up we scrambled, missing the slippery sections before the pairs of wet soles inundated the tiny shoreline.  The shedding of the life vests was an event in itself, causing helmet displacement and then yellow jersey replacement, but we were ready to ride.  Off through the quaint farmland and rolling paths of northern Lantau.  A site that most people would have expected in northern Vietnam, but this is Asia’s World City, and the reason we race here. 

Flying along the paths on the bikes, we passed a few roused mutts who acted as our audience at that hour, and up the hills we rode.  Up and up until we hit the top ridge with the first of the views.  Then up some more, until the belly of the Buddha was there to great us in all its glory.  No time to stop for well wishing, it was a race for the trails.  Early morning visitors who must have missed the bus home the night before, or who particularly liked the pre-dawn vegetarian food were gawking at awe in us with our yellow jerseys.  They had cameras, but were not physiologically prepared to work the index finger so rapidly to take photos of these yellow moving targets that had never been mentioned in the guidebooks.

Pitch the bikes in random yet organized order; we would be back for them sometime later, after many unknown adventures in the meantime.  Water stop, guzzle it down, refill and then “gel.”  Gel is to an adventure racer what dim sum is to those in the city – it makes them tick, just at a much faster pace.  One gel per hour is like human rocket fuel; if you can keep it down to begin with.  Bees wouldn’t touch the stuff because it would give them a sugar hangover.

We darted along the trail contouring Lantau Peak, wondering if we were headed for the reservoir below or the ridges above.  Suddenly, as our feet pounded the rocks and concentration kept us from going off the steep edge, we were told to head upwards.  Sharp sensations in the upper thighs were commonplace, as everyone shifted gears and muscle groups.  The ridgeline was thin, no passing here, with the wind keeping us to the trail for fear of blowing off one side or the other.  The sun was rising over the China Sea, reminding us that we had already done more than most do in an entire week, and it wasn’t even time for breakfast yet.

A false summit topped out to give us spectacular views of two peaks in the distance that still had to be conquered.  Cramps set in, the wind was howling, and yellow jerseys speckled the three ridgelines like something that Christo would have planned as a follow-on to his yellow ribbons in Central Park.  It was surreal.  When the view from the top was taken in between gasps of air and gulps of water, those who looked out to the horizon would have seen the thick haze layer of modernization coming from banks of the Pearl River Delta.  This is what we were breathing on a daily basis, but at least now we were above it, looking into the clear sky for 360 degrees.
A quick moment of glory at the top and off we dropped.  Huge stone steps which must have been made for Godzilla’s waddle had to be descended, putting heavy pressure on the knees.  The elevation drop was significant, and you could almost feel increased oxygen as we hit the contour trail back to the bikes.   Water, gulp, refill and gel again before heading down the mountain.  This time on a small cement path down the backside of Lantau, with scenery that felt like somewhere in Yunnan Province.  The morning sun was warm, giving us renewed energy as we once again changed muscle groups.   A few curious monks peered at us from their lanai as we sped by through their secret place of peace.

Skid marks clearly suggested that the race had conquered some unprepared racers.  Those who knew the trail flew along the steps, while others encountered turns and curves that not even an amusement park could duplicate.  That is what we were all there for.  Speed, adrenaline, and a bit of the unknown.

The momentum from cruising down the hill was almost enough to get us to the water without even trying.   It was now time to drop the bikes and repeat the life jacket fire drill.  It was a quick chance to recover and prepare for the upper body leg of the race…but first a trudge through the mud.  This time we had hard bottoms – kayaks that is, which made for a huge improvement in aquatic efficiency as opposed to the previous inflatable kayaks that were not much different than the inner tubes we had previously floated our bikes with.  New muscle groups and confined legs meant for different cramps and body pains.  Luckily the weather was perfect, with a slight breeze and the winter sun glowing, helping those who soaked it in, but probably straining those who didn’t like being on the water needing heavy arm action to propel them along the 4km course back to the bikes.
One last mud crossing with the kayaks in tow, and we were back on the bikes headed for the hills again.  Time for gel and water, otherwise one could hit the famed “wall” where all energy, spirit and ability to move are rendered null and void.  This time the ascent was up a river bed, stalling those with balance deficiencies, but rewarding those who could rock dance.   As the river got steeper, so did the rock walls, and clipping-in was a necessity.  Those with height fears were out of their safety zone, while others thrived on the desire to get even higher, in all senses.   The top meant rapid descent, abseiling through the waterfalls like one would expect to see in Borneo.   Welcome to Hong Kong.   Three sets of abseiling kept the blood flowing in all teams, strengthening even the most timid of racers, readying them for the rock dancing yet again which was needed to get back to the bikes.  This was nothing compared to the controlled falls which were now a distant memory.

For most, well over five hours had past and we were still on the course.  Gel supplies low, no idea of when the next water station might be, yet close proximity to the endless high-rises that have sprung up like weeds in Tung Chung meant we were probably nearing the end.  At least no more elevation to tackle.  We were back to civilization, speeding through the uber-environs of cement, past those city dwellers who might have just woken up, wondering why all the fleeting yellow jerseys.  

You could smell the finish line, or at least dream of putting that bike down and walking off the day’s exertion, but it was not over yet.  The bridge could not be forgotten, and two lone lines reaching almost to the sea meant that there was a final bath to be taken by all.   This was an abseil with no rock to lean against – it meant putting yourself in a spider’s mind and dropping to the tip of the line.  Plop.   The crowd on the shore loved it, and those who engage adrenaline and water thrived on it even more.  Those who feared the rope had but one last challenge to overcome, but all well worth it. 

The race had been won, hours ago by the winners, but also at each moment a new team went through the finishing gates.  This was no ordinary race.  It was a plethora of challenges, and when all was said and done, when sore bodies recovered, and when each person looked back at what was done on that Sunday morning, it is likely that something inside each of those teams will bring them back for more.

Doug Woodring
Hong Kong