My host father is a man I am quickly growing to be highly fond of. He has a face like an amiable pumpkin with added cheekbones, appears to be a disillusioned rebellious intellectual and is a cyclist and winter swimmer to boot. I possibly should have remembered that he really is quite a keen cyclist when he invited me to go cycling with him... He regularly cycles 150k in a day, and owns an Italian roadbike that even I can tell is serious.
Unfortunately for me, he also appears to believe that I am a serious sports sort of person as well. The badminton bureaucrats saga, tales of rock climbing and kayaking appear to have convinced him thus, as does the reflected glory of having an uncle who recently cycled 900 miles in about 9 days or something equally ridiculous. Even my tales of struggling up and down Arisaig by bike appeared to convince him I am actually a fit, keen and capable human being.
He first suggested we go a little while back, and assured me we wouldn't go too far... Possibly I should have listened to my ayi who reacted with horror to hte suggestion that I might go cycling with him and his friends, describing dislocated shoulders, how safety was the most important and that we were just saying it to annoy her. The reaction I got when trying to reassure her and told her I like adventure (and am used to it...) was truly wonderful. She erupted in a chorus of 'bu xing' that must have lasted half an hour, whilst my host father grinned like a naughty schoolboy.
Sure enough though, the next day when my ayi had vanished off to visit her father he came knocking, and out came the helmets, bikes and the gloves to protect your hands when you fall off, and the spandex-clad friend with intimidating leg muscles (again maybe a slight clue). He also asked how far I felt I could go, asking if I felt up to 3,4 or 5 kilometres. I of course said 5 would be no problem at all....
Having set off at a fair pace and having watched the spandex clad friend disappear into the distance, about an hour later my host father said we'd already done 15 kilometres, and I realised he hadn't meant 3,4 or 5 kilometres. He meant 30, 40 or 50 kilometres.
Fortunately for me, cycling around Dalian proved easy, once we'd escaped the city outskirts and the lorrys that seemed to be aiming for us. The scenery was glorious - trees, mountains, reservoirs and the occasional temple, all green and feeling very much like the last fine day of autumn before the cold starts to set in.
There was just a little of me that died inside when he said we'd reached 26k, and were about to start turning back, and I realised I had another 26 to go.... By the last couple of hills, the agony in my legs was just starting to be unbearable, but just at the point where I thought I was going to crack, give in and apologise for ever saying I knew how to ride a bike, we turned a corner and I realised the last 10k was going to be downhill. I finished with mud all over my face, and ache in every leg muscle I own.
We made our way back inside to find my ayi waiting for us with dinner on the table and a scowl on her face. She made it quite clear I was to make sure my mother knew she had definitely not agreed to any of this, and that we really shouldn't do it again.
I'm really not sure I'm going to make a satisfactory surrogate daughter, at least as far as she is concerned. I also have made a mental note to listen properly to my host father slurring numbers at me in future. I survived 50k, and would probably do it again, but right now, it hurts...
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